One was of teak, the other a glass top. Scratches on the first could be made good with a scrape down and polish. The other bore such ravages like a warrior his wounds, with pride. The first was rectangular, with each place defined and managing to seat only six. The other was a cozy circle and you could always fit an extra chair, provided it was family and you didn't mind knocking elbows.
When my daughter was about five, we moved into a larger flat. Being prone to hosting parties we decided on a large dinning table. Somehow, that single piece of furniture became central to our planning and execution. My contribution, being always logical, had to do with the shape. "If you want to seat more people, go for a circular table", I said and promptly dismissed the matter from my mind. My husband poured over designs and pictured the table in his mind. "A sun", he mentioned, one morning as we sat sipping our morning tea. Dawn was just breaking and it was that moment in the day, when you could see the orange ball of fire, perfectly round, through misty clouds. A few days later, he showed me a sketch. Circular, with rays in a symmetrical pattern on the outer edge. The bottom wooden base was designed to complement the top.
Both, however, had one thing in common. Families that had grown together, coming closer over long meals and conversation. Father and daughter were both clear that they needed to hold on to their piece of childhood and growing up.
Some time back, we decided to sell off my parents-in-law's eighty-six year old home. There were old beds, cabinets of carved teak, knick-knacks in brass and porcelain, tree lamps and side-tables of various shapes and sizes. We decided to bring home most of the stuff and dispose some of our contemporary furniture. The only difficult decision was changing the dinning table.
As always happens, with a new piece of furniture, the first couple of years we were very careful. The table cloth and mats were put out daily. A sharp reprimand went out to anyone dragging something across its surface. Slowly, the table became a familiar part of our quotidian. The children used it as a study table and when Papa wasn't looking, my daughter, the budding artist, traced the etched lines of the sun-ray patterns with a pencil. The table moved with us, as we changed house five times. We didn't exactly notice when a lattice-work of fine scratches, on the surface, had its own story to tell. Countless family dinners, parties, office work, exam preparations and at times, just a convenient dump.
Going back, some more years, I married and moved in to live with my in-laws. Through the working week, we managed to catch up with them, twice daily - for breakfast and dinner. In the mornings it was brusque responses (stealing glances at the watch) to father-in-law's update on home matters and the world in general. In the evenings, it was long conversations. The tablecloth rested over a fairly stable table that didn't particularly catch my attention. When my husband first mentioned he would like to bring the table, I did not take him very seriously. He's just being sentimental and the idea will fade away, was the thought on my mind.
When he announced this to our daughter, I figured I'd better pay attention, as my role as arbitrator looked inevitable. "But that is a part of our growing up years", said my daughter. "It is the same for your father, dear", fell on deaf years. "That one is a regular table, our's is specially designed - unique", she retorted. That's when I decided to actually lift the tablecloth and look at the extremely stylish piece that was crying out for a coat of polish.
For a couple of days, my husband and I moved around our flat trying to figure out a space for both tables. Sheer reason challenged the thought but we went around with a measuring tape and hope. I absorbed fresh stories of my husband's childhood and fielded on Skype fresh questions from my daughter. Finally, we agreed that we'll figure out a place to store "her" glass-topped table, while we gave her "father's" teak wood one a temporary berthing space. "Just hold on to it, till we buy a space and I ship that across with some other stuff" (rattling off a list of furniture).
Each of us hold a piece or more of something that brought us luck, reminds us of beautiful days gone by or gives us that comfort of permanence. For the last couple of weeks there have been a number of videos on social media on Marie Kondo and how she is helping American homes and offices to de-clutter. "Minimalism", enjoying an "experience" over buying "things", "100 days de-cluttering challenge" are recommended as new ways to enjoy life and find peace.
There can be no one-size-fits-all to finding peace and happiness. What you possess doesn't matter but the memories you build around it, does. My husband gave up his green card and returned home. My daughter has set up home, married and is building a career in another country. The table is just a metaphor for memories we share and the togetherness we carve out of glass or wood.
