My table is gone and I am sad. It seems such a silly state to be in over a piece of furniture, but I am sad and it doesn't feel silly and that is a fact.
The thing is, I did not have a whole lot of time to sit and reflect over all of the memories stained into the wood. The people, those people from down the hill with their precocious Tasmanian devil of a daughter, came and picked it up earlier than planned and I just did not prepare.
So I sit on the barstool and I look over my shoulder at all of that space. I love the lofty feel of the sudden space, but I miss the table. It was a mighty wooden piece, with carvings of elephants and legs like two lumberjack's. Decisions were meant to be made at a table such as this, and hunger satiated, and bread broken, and truths spoken. And three years ago I was cast aside in a too small apartment with a four person table, forced to move out, and suddenly able to fit a ten person table in my new place, my table. I prevailed, and my table practically screamed “prevail”. And the Christmas dinners I hosted. And the birthday dinners hosted. And the dates. And the flatmate family gatherings. And the Thanksgiving dinner before illness threatened my families.
And the nostalgia is thick, but when peeled down to the core, it isn't the table at all. It's about saying “goodbye” and it is proving harder than I initially thought.