The Table

There was a table.

In the playroom of my grandmother's house. It was big, and old and dark and full of scratches, decades of what it takes to move five babies into adulthood.

And one day it was my turn. To sit at that table. It was my homework. My pencil that scratched the shape of stars onto the surface. And I remember being fascinated by how something so hard and sturdy, so able to withstand the test of time, could be so soft. It's where my grandmother made me buttered bowties and cucumbers soaked in vinegar.

It is where we passed the after school hours playing puzzle races that she let me win and monopoly games that lasted for days. Laundry, smelling of detergent and spring air would be expertly folded in piles on that table. When my mom had trouble taking care of me, I'd seek refuge at my grandmother's house, and in just a matter of moments I'd be at that table waiting for the person who gifted me with the most attention and who made me feel important, to bring me a glass of chocolate milk.

It was an eyesore, exiled to the playroom. It sat next to an old standup piano with yellowed and chipped keys. Far from the fancy dining room table that sat empty and polished, protected by a cover. The surface pristine, like a freshly frozen lake, awakening my longing for ice skates and winter. A bowl of shiny freshly dusted fake fruits right in the middle. But my table, next to the old piano, was as much of my home as any place I could name or remember.

And that playroom had a side door. And more often than not, as I sat at that table the door would open and someone in my family would come through, bringing the scent of the magnolia tree with them on their clothes. Aunts, uncles, great uncles who weren't actually uncles at all, and little me would feel part of something so big. I had this feeling, deep inside, when I was very small, that my family was extraordinary. And I would sit at that table and I knew I belonged. I knew I was home. I knew that I had been born into something good.

And at some point I went to college. My grandmother moved to Florida. And I am not sure what happened to my table, except I know without a doubt that it exists. A tiny multiplication problem etched in its surface wherever it might be.

A few years ago I found myself in a small town in Mexico. Taking over a lease from a person that insisted I buy all of his stuff. I didn't want anything, except in the middle of it all there stood a table. A dark, ugly, uneven wooden table, with scratches and chips from those that came before. And I made a home in that town. I created a community. And every month, on the night of the full moon, I would drag that table out to the backyard.

And among medicinal plants that slowly healed me, chipped paint and the constellations, that table became a gathering place for friends and strangers. And as Jesus multiplied fishes and loaves, I witnessed that miracle first hand. My table fitting even more chairs around it than it could the month before. And connections were made over bottles of red wine. And that table helped people feel like they had people. A million and a half words were shared over that table. Dozens of countries came together at that table.

The following mornings I would come outside, mind hazy from wine and staying up until the wee hours. I would begin to scrape off inches of candle wax that hours before had created a softness on the faces of those around it. Illuminating the space where shame and secrets were voiced and put down. Where common ground was found and friendships were cultivated. I would picture the light from the full moon, filling inside me, and I would have an inner knowing that it wasn't just a coincidence we all found each other. It didn't matter that in some cases it was only for one night. You can never be unfound.

And people continued to come, and people brought other people. And sometimes some people ended up at the table because they happened to walk past my giant open window. Pausing to listen to the sound of laughter and story telling finding its way to the street. And we would catch their eye and invite them in. And sometimes people came for just one magical night. And sometimes months later, on the full moon, I'd receive a text from someone who had come months before, or someone who had met someone who had come months before. And would it be alright if they joined? Of course it would be alright. My mother taught me that tables can always be extended.

In the rainy season I'd dry puddles of rainwater off of that table, appreciating the faded circles next to darker spots where it had been burned. Eventually I'd drag it back inside so that Otto had a place to eat his morning waffles before he left for school.

This table is my memory basket. It is the place where stories and heartache, budding relationships and farewells came to land.

And it is possible that I will let every single thing in my life go. Content with whatever can be held in a backpack on my back. But if I can, I will keep that table. I will drag it across continents and highways. Letting it collect stories, being shined by laughter and tears. And if the day comes that it is decided that it is too heavy to carry, the burden too great, I have faith that it will have served its purpose with me and become the memory basket for someone else trying to get home.