I got my old table in August of 1992 when I separated from my wife. I can't remember where I got it, only that I ordered it from a catalogue and had to put it together, along with the four chairs it came with. It was a sturdy, square, blonde wood table with a high sheen and four cloth covered chairs. It had leaves that pulled out of the end and settled into place, as if by magic. It wasn't big or fancy, but I didn't have room for big in my new apartment and I didn't have the budget or the taste for fancy. (Anyway, I consider myself a better cook than host, so what money I could afford as I set up my new household I put into good pans and knives.)
So, no, my old table was nothing to write home about. But here's the thing: it was my table for more than 17 years. At my table I shared meals with my daughters as we navigated, clumsily, the whole split family situation. Mealtime was the one time I had a fighting chance to connect with them, really connect with them, because they liked the food that I cooked for them or that we cooked together. We made individual pizzas on my table with their friends and colored Easter eggs. Eventually we shared my table with their guys, too.
At my table I shared meals with my Dad and Grandma (his mother), now both dead. I took over the role of holiday and Sunday meal maker when my parents were divorced n 1984, a role that became a legitimate inheritance once my mother died of cancer in March of 1992, five months before I got the table. At my table I watched my Grandma, normally a very modest eater, pack away my food and watched my Dad take as many helpings as he needed to "make stuff come out even."
At my table I shared candlelight dinners with women I dated, and loved in my way, women who helped me learn how to feel and how to risk again. Even if our relationships foundered, and they did, what we shared at this table was intimate and real. Finally, at my table I shared meals with Cary as we fell in love, and with her family once we did. At my table my soul found its way home after so many years of restless searching.
And yet, it is right that we bought our new table. It is right that I let the old table go, like certain other remnants of my past, remnants that served me well once but don't serve me well now. New is fun. New is exciting. New is what keeps us changing and growing and open to the wonders of the world. But the old is what reminds us of where we have been, who we have been. Old keeps us grounded and gives us perspective. Old is familiar and oddly "safe," even when it is something that, as I said, no longer serves us (like an addiction or a psychological defense or a career that has lost its meaning).
"I'm excited to get our new table today," Cary said as we ate breakfast this morning. I grunted out my assent to the sentiment. But what I should have said is this: "I will be, too, tomorrow. But today I need to grieve the loss of an old companion." Silly, right? It's just a thing after all. But at my table I lived, I loved, I laughed, I cried, and I gave gifts that were well received. At my table.
