kitchen table

When money was scarce,
we decided to sell almost everything we had
and move across the country
and only keep that which was essential to living and loving
and parenting two babies.
(it was decided books were that,
and a kitchen table was not.)

We rented a small apartment with cousin Sarah
paying $600 a month for not much more
than a roof and some scuffed walls
that held the evidence of other families
and reminded us that belonging is a process.
The hall always smelled like shoes
and the bathroom was carpeted

but we were surrounded by 
the tallest trees I'd ever seen
natural sky-scrapers
and a constant, gentle mist
which made the grass perpetually
the loveliest shade of green
which almost made up for
the late afternoon sunsets
and endless gray winter mornings.

Geese would fly overhead,
announcing their departure
and I loved how the shadows were deep with shades of blue
under the drooping arms of evergreens
and the way the light spilled golden
between the branches
every two weeks when the sun
decided to peer out its hesitant, cheerful face.
Sometimes it rained at the same time,
and I'd never seen the trees steam before.

Anyway, it was in this land
of wonder and seasonal affective disorder
that we decided any kitchen table would do.
But not just any any kitchen table

We salvaged one, round and warped in the middle
and sawed off its legs
and then we took another 
(from the same spot by the dumpster,
probably left by someone else with very little money,
discarding almost everything they own
for adventures half a continent away)
and we sawed off the top
(which, if you can imagine,
is much the same process as sawing off the legs)
and then we put the pieces together,
though they didn't fit quite right
four lovely, spindly legs
and a smooth, sturdy rectangular top.
But it wasn't quite enough -
we (meaning you) sanded and painted and glazed
the most comforting shade of teal.

And upon this table,
we have eaten thousands of meals,
played hundreds of games,
read dozens of books,
and discussed things that made us
laugh and cry and shout.
We have raised four children
and nourished them with food
that sticks to their bones
at this table.
We have iced cookies for Christmas
at this table.
And cut scraps of fabric and thread
for Halloween costumes
at this table.
Daily spills have warped the center
which requires always a large vase of flowers
to cover the imperfection.

And so now, maybe you see why 
I can't trade this old, rickety table
with its aching joints
and scuffed corners
and groaning, wobbly legs
and warped surface
for another, without the memories
or personality of our old teal table
built on the dreams of two people
who moved across the country
after selling almost everything they had
when money was scarce.