I sat around all manner of tables on Sunday.
Each one with its own story.
There's the table—our table—where we shared breakfast. Coffee, toast and a navel orange.
The table where I played hand after hand of Rummy 500 with my grandmother, mother, and uncle.
The Sunday supper table. Encircled by a pacing, but patient dog.
The dining room table where we play(ed) chess.
There is comfort at the table. In my lifetime I will have spent hours-days-weeks-years passing a dish, refilling a glass, sharing a story, listening—at the table.