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.
the table is central--our communal gathering place, really.
ReplyDeleteand I like how your tablecloth, so pretty, is not crisply pressed. Mine never is.
The heart of the home. Another thoughtful post.
ReplyDeleteI love the sound of all those tables. And you've brought back memories of my own distant Sundays; playing cards with my grandmother and her sisters. Here's to tables and all the life that they see.
ReplyDeleteThe family table is for so much more than simply sharing a meal. Our lives are played out around the table.
ReplyDeleteI am on my way to visit my mother next week where I look forward to toast beverages at the table. This time, of course, with a wee one underfoot. xo
ReplyDeleteSo much good. You have sent me off in so many directions -- a breakfast my mom would love, rummy is my favorite card game, memories of playing chess with my uncles... Thank you. There is comfort at the table. I couldn't agree more.
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