Table

I’m crying over a table.

Not literally sitting there.

But sitting with the memories of the first piece of furniture I had sanded and finished, along with matching benches.

We pinched pennies, and this table was the perfect space for our kitchen, where our young children ate breakfasts, lunches, and ice cream; worked at crafts; did their homework; and later where visiting grandparents sat to read morning papers. There were carvings dug into the wood, like “We were here!” tattoos. The benches’ storage bins held placemats, paper, paintbrushes and Play-Doh.

We gave the table to our daughter and her young family. They created their own memories of shared meals, crafts and homework. Lately, it has served as a place to pile school papers, mail, backpacks, keys and travel cups. Their house is being renovated, and the table no longer wanted. Their kids have grown. I don’t have space to take it back. They will take it to the dump, if no one claims it for free in the next hour.

I pray that someone will take this table and carve their own memories into it. If not, it dies in the dump. I know it’s an inanimate object, but it holds 2 generations of sacred family memories.

At the thought of it going to the dump, I’m crying over a table.