The Kitchen Table

As I emptied my home of the things we once needed, one after the next, I hardly wept. I approached it with pragmatism and sense of humor. I consoled myself with the knowledge that these things would serve another family as well as they served ours. I needed the money in my pocket, after all, more than I needed the things at that time; and the buyers needed the things more than the money. There was little time for thinking or feeling much of anything as the last two fledglings left the Eyrie (named for an Eagle’s nest) to begin their lives independently and I sold our home to help them on their way.

There were a few moments that I won’t soon forget like the sound of hollow closets and the echo they made against the hardwood floors when they are broom clean and you shut them for the last time. They boom with an empty that is jarring, unrecognizable; but, in that same moment, burgeon with yesterday’s pitter, patter, and broken glass. I never saw that coming.

Some things had to stay. Or, rather, I had to abandon them. They are rooted, quite literally – the oak, mulberry, redbud and willow that I planted for each of the kids. And the large Norway maple in the back yard behind which I would sit when I needed to cry free from the peering of my little ones during the early years that we called it home. There was a useful ache that I felt as I ran my hands along their trunks for the last time.

I inked a tasteful tattoo in the master closet above the door jamb where it wouldn’t be easily noticed. All of our initials – entangled. Just as we were for so many years. A simple way to ‘stay’ when we had to go. The truth is I wasn’t quite ready.

I was the first one in and the last one out which felt appropriate and heavy. As is our family tradition I wrote out the memories of things that I didn’t care to take and burned them in the fireplace and lit a candle signifying hope in our new chapter. 

I don’t have a quarrel with any of it, really, save one mistake. The kitchen table.

I bought that pinewood table from K-Mart in 1995, the year my first child was born. And every year I intended to replace it but there was always something more pressing like a school trip, softball fees, contact lenses or child support. The list was endless. So, we just ‘made due’.

It was marred with a burn mark from the 8th grade dinner my daughter made forgetting to put a trivet down; and covered in scars from the kids pounding playdoh shapes when they were little and bouncing quarters when they were older. It wasn’t quite level but, in truth, neither were we. The legs had faint teething marks from the puppies who became dogs who became family and have since passed. The finish was worn along the table edge where little hands and elbows rested through the years. I somehow made a family dinner happen every single night they were with me. I have no idea how with sports and life. Sometimes 4:30pm. Other times 9:00pm. And the table carried history, too, of the occasional argument between pre-teens or the game of questions which incited thoughtful responses to current events alongside questions like “would you rather be mustard or ketchup…and why?” And the laughter! Always the laughter. It held Easter baskets and birthday cakes and sheltered renegade peas under the rims of the dinner plates. It was the DMZ for some difficult parent-child conversations about sex, drugs, rock-n-roll and the condition of their bedrooms. Somehow, those talks always ended with greater understanding and mutual respect. Every year, without fail, it was covered with Christmas cookies and, to the bitter end, may still have had a few sprinkles tucked into the hinges. We sat there doing homework. We sat there writing thank you notes. We sat there. Together.

In my haste to move, I sold it. Unbeknownst to me that kitchen table carried our entire family history and I didn’t realize it until the pickup truck carrying it left the driveway. 

I hardy wept through all of it. But, in that moment, I fell to my knees and finally fell apart.

Hold onto the little things and the quiet moments; the movie nights and the skinned knees. Hold onto the love and the togetherness while you have it.

And never – and I mean NEVER - sell the kitchen table.