The Table

Last night I began a novel writing course at the local community college. For our first in-class writing exercise we were told to imagine that we were a piece of furniture that had just been moved to a new location in the home. Our assignment was to write from the point of view of the furniture. Below is my attempt to anthropomorphize a beloved piece of furniture: 

For thirty years I was the focal point, the epicenter of my family's home. I was the place for holidays, for birthday parties, for pumpkin carvings and cookie decorating. All around me there was humor and tears and glasses of spilled milk. They brought me home when the eldest child was small. As the family grew I faithfully held steaming plates of spaghetti, meatloaf, and occasionally some good old Chef Boyardee. Underneath my broad expanse there was nearly always a Labrador or two, eagerly awaiting the scraps that would fall, sometimes by chance, though usually on purpose. Most weeknights held family suppers; Saturday mornings brought eggs and bacon. For many years I played a key role in Sunday afternoon dinners, boasting items both savory and sweet, surrounded by three, and sometimes four generations sharing meals and memories. But time marched on. The grandparents came to me more slowly with each passing year, and soon Sunday dinners waned. Weeknight dinners were replaced with quick bites between school plays, band concerts, and track meets. The childhood agonies wrought by forced consumption of vegetables were replaced by far more agonizing math problems. And then there were fights. There was drama. There were debates of every sort. But there was joy too. The excited squeals of children were replaced by the raucous laughter of teenagers. On those Friday nights I was loaded high with pizza, popcorn, brownies, hopes, and dreams. A few boyfriends came and went, but always enjoyed the food. One day, college letters arrived and stacks of glossy brochures lay strewn about, with acceptance letters soon to follow. Gradually the house became quieter as the girls and their friends left. For a few years they came back at holidays and gathered around once more. They planned their lives and laughed at one another's foibles. Wedding invitations were addressed and hubbub ensued. Yet time marched on and change crept in. They all grew up and they moved away for good.

I wait in the garage today, ready to move on as well. I'll go to another home, a place full of new hopes and dreams. Laughter will be shared, tears will be shed. There will be more spilled milk and a new dog below. Because time marches on.