If you walk into my house, you'll see a lot of colorful, comfy furniture. Some of it is antique. Some skews modern. Some, quite frankly, needs to be replaced. My favorite piece is the lamest one. It's my kitchen table. Dark wood and Formica. Rinky-dink chairs with vinyl seat covers.
It's the kitchen table I grew up with. Every single family member has sat at that table. Every childhood friend. Every pet I've ever loved has rubbed against the table legs (and, let's face it, probably jumped up on the tabletop) at some point. Even most of my boyfriends have sat at that table (except one, but he was shitty anyway). Pretty much everyone I've ever loved has taken a seat around it.
It's a piece of personal history sitting right there in my kitchen.
My very first memory in life occurred at that table. It was my second birthday party--most of the family turned out; it was two months after my dad died, so they wanted to make me feel extra special. I wore a blue dress and showed my great-grandma the skinned knee I'd gotten in the parking lot of the supermarket earlier when we picked up ice cream for the festivities. Boy do I miss Great-Grandma. I'm glad she sat at that table.
Nobody, not even my mom, likes that table as much as I do, so it's destined to be landfill some day.
Of course, I'm destined to be landfill too (aren't we all?). You can't take it with you, but it's nice to pull up a chair and enjoy it while you can.
What a great post this is, Nicole. I love your thoughts on what is probably an ordinary, ignorable piece of furniture, and I love that you love it, and why.
ReplyDelete