I have quite a few tables scattered throughout my house.
Like most people, I have a kitchen table, a dining room table, and a coffee table, plus various assorted end and side tables. In the
kids’ playroom, there is a small round table that we do art projects on. My
husband’s computer sits on a table rather than a desk, and our office also
contains a 6-foot folding table that is currently covered with various bits of
random detritus (including, at the moment, two wrapped birthday gifts, a sleeve
of tennis balls, a roll of paper towels, a plastic funnel, a stack of blank CDs, a box of computer and video equipment,
and a box of…boxes).
But the table that spoke to me most eloquently this morning
as I considered subjects for today’s photo was this one.
I never really finished clearing it completely after my son’s
birthday party on Saturday, and it looks so forlorn with its rumpled, askew placemats
and stubbornly cheerful sunflower centerpiece. A small stain on one of the
placemats and a few unbrushed crumbs on the table whisper of the celebration
past. An empty crockpot and a pair of salt and pepper shakers are the only
remainder of a delicious meal shared by the family. And the sheer number of
placemats reminds me of my delight that both my mother-in-law and my
father-in-law were able to join us despite recent health issues.
It’s just a table – and a messy, uncleared one at that. But
it speaks of so much more.
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