Heirloom, family table. Deep, polished wood with hints and sparks of red, if you looked deep enough. I lived through fifteen years of meals at that table and never once noticed a scratch in the surface, and the table was much older than me, even then.
The last time I saw it, I looked deep, seeing myself as in an earthen mirror. I wondered over how many reflections were trapped with its history. How many meals?
How many secrets heard, how much grief calmed? How many arguments over dessert? How many make ups over coffee? There must be hours of confessions, weeks of love talk (please pass the juice, my dear) and years upon years of stories shared within this simple piece of beloved and faithfully polished furniture.
I don’t know the fate of the table. I hope it still serves a family, somewhere. I hope their own lives and stores are adding to its rich color and flavor.