Our kitchen table has stories to tell. Yours probably does too. We bought it around 18 years ago when our children were in early elementary school. It was never intended to be an heirloom, and it certainly won’t be. It came straight out of a box from a discount warehouse. I remember sitting around it—all four of us—at the display, wondering out loud whose seat would be whose. We picked them out then, and never wavered. The table came with four chairs and a bench. We’ve moved it to three more houses now. I’ve re-covered the chairs once and the bench twice. I have fabric to redo the chairs again, but somehow it keeps slipping down on my to-do list.
The table has scratches, water marks, and some weird bubbles from a craft project. One corner has a ding in it from when our oldest came home from school on the first day we had it, and slung a backpack on top. I’ve tried to give it away to both children, but young adults don’t want six-person scratched up tables, apparently.
It holds memories. Some are particular, and others blur into a long string.
- the kids making signs for a lemonade stand for tsunami relief
- Thanksgivings with turkey crafts and Honey-Baked hams
- so many family meals and Scrabble games
- homework, school work, church work, paper work
- long conversations and short prayers about food, medical care and family dramas
- so many things piled on top, then cleared away, over and over
I heard a preacher say once that tables are our friendliest furniture. They wait for you to sit down. They offer food, drink, and sometimes conversation. They can hold memories of sadness, trauma or scarcity. When we are very fortunate, they hold memories of laughter, love and plenty.
What stories do the tables you have eaten around hold?
a writing prompt
Joy Harjo’s poem Perhaps the World Ends Here says:
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Write about a table where you have eaten meals.
the poem
Perhaps the World Ends Here —by Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. —from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1994)
