The reality is, it’s merely a kitchen table—a piece of furniture I passed countless times without a second thought, only acknowledging it when it accumulated crumbs or bore stains of unidentified origin. It shouldn’t elicit such sorrow. After all, there are far more significant losses to contend with, more profound voids to endure.
A few weeks prior to parting with the table, I made the decision that it didn’t belong in the new home I was crafting with my two children. We were navigating life after the death of my husband, their father. In a moment of seemingly heartless practicality, I decided that the table’s color and style clashed with my vision for our new space. This new abode called for lighter, more soothing furnishings—a sanctuary where my family of three could finally find peace, a space that could cradle our grief and allow us to breathe again.
When my friend Sarah came to collect the table that had occupied my kitchen for nearly a decade, I watched as the spot it had filled suddenly felt cavernous. The absence was palpable.
Later, Sarah sent me a photo of the table adorned with a tablecloth and flowers in her home. It appeared lovely there, as if it had always belonged to her. While I felt no regret in giving it to her—indeed, I was glad it found a new life—there was an undeniable emptiness within me after her departure.
We had constructed a life around that table. It was chosen for the house I was now leaving behind. I can still picture my husband running his fingers over its weathered surface, appreciating its flaws, declaring it perfect for what we thought would be our forever home. And it was.
We shared countless memories there. I recall the kids moving from high chairs to booster seats, and eventually sitting on chairs that dwarfed them. I remember my husband, settling into his seat every evening to catch up on sports, the remote always in hand. Holiday meals were a lively affair, filled with laughter and love, as family members crowded around the table, unwilling to separate into smaller groups. I can still hear the echoes of conversations with friends, glasses clinking, and the joyful chaos of children bonding over shared moments.
But that table also bore witness to our struggles. I remember my husband’s second seizure occurring right there, the fear in our children’s eyes as they looked to me for reassurance I couldn’t provide. I scrubbed that table in a frantic attempt to manage my anxiety as I waited for a doctor’s call. I recall sitting there, surrounded by platters of food brought by the hundreds who came to pay their respects after my husband’s funeral, needing a moment of stillness in the storm.
In the wake of those memories, it’s hard not to feel that perhaps the table was more than just furniture. It represented the stability we craved during tumultuous times. Maybe I had relinquished the very heart of our home—the home that faded along with the life we shared with the man we lost.
Or perhaps, at times, the only way to process the monumental losses that feel too vast to confront directly is to grieve the tangible, the visible. It’s acceptable to mourn the loss of a kitchen table; it might even be necessary.
What I’m learning is that while a kitchen table can symbolize a home’s heart, the essence of a home transcends mere physical objects. The heart of a home lies in memories, and those memories remain, undisturbed by the absence of the table. They travel with me to the new house, where they will coexist with new experiences around a fresh kitchen table, also destined to collect crumbs and laughter.
Because it’s just a kitchen table now gone, leaving an empty space behind—and yet, there are greater losses to face.
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