My first husband bought it for our big corner house. Saturdays, he dusted all the furniture––caressing antique European curves with a 100% cotton cloth dabbed in lemon polish, while the stereo blasted Percy Sledge wailing about how a man loved a woman. We seldom ate at the table. I acquired it in the divorce.
My nephew Anthony, who lived with me after the break-up, slumped over notebooks strewn across the table. His ninth-grade teacher had ordered him to catch up on the year’s worth of assignments he’d ignored. I sat opposite, my crossed arms pressed against the unyielding wood. We faced off across no-man's-land, medium oak, oil finish.
The day Ben and I got married, we inserted both leaves, extended the table to its full length, and pushed it against the wall to make room for a house full of friends. They covered it with home cooked wedding treats. Ben and I were prone to suppers in front of the television, intertwined on the couch, but when we dined at the table, he waltzed me around the living room for dessert.
He and I stacked the top, leaves, and legs in the driveway. The Sherwood Center sent their truck for it, and soon another family will transform my dismantled memories into a dining room table.
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