A dining room table isn’t just a piece of furniture; it’s also associated with memories.
The year that Megan was born, Rob and I bought a new dining room table at some cool furniture store in Fort Lauderdale. The table was teak, with beautiful tile inlays. For the next twenty years, that table hosted mostly holiday dinners, some of them large, most of them small. And the rest of the time, we ate at the kitchen table.
Twenty years after we bought the table, it collapsed, almost as though it sensed it hadn’t been loved or used enough to count. For the last four years, that space has sat vacant in our house. Rob has used it for yoga and meditation classes, the cats sometimes wandered around in it, apparently wondering what had happened to the table.
Then a friend told us she had a table she’d bought from her sister that was too large for her kitchen and were we interested? The table was made of dark wood, had six chairs, and she was selling it for $150 and her boyfriend could bring it over to our place.
So one afternoon between thunderstorms, the dining room table was delivered. The dark wood that we weren’t sure we liked at first kind of grew on us. Rob and I ate a couple of dinners at the table. It felt good. But it wasn’t truly initiated until this evening, when Megan had a going away party for her friend, Ross Berlin. They met in high school, went to the same college, and now Ross is moving out of state.
We’ve known Ross since he was 15 years old, a verbal, opinionated kid who could talk to you about mythology and politics as though he were a 40-year-old in disguise. We think of him as Megan’s spiritual brother, the son we didn’t have. When Megan did her internship at Dolphins Plus in Key Largo, she lived with Ross’s mother. When Ross was sick with some terrible virus, he bunked in our back bedroom and we fed him chicken noodle soup and antibiotics. It has been that kind of friendship.
Now Ross is headed to Oakland, California with his girlfriend, Megan, a dancer of Somalian descent, and will be building houses with Habitat for Humanity while Megan is obtaining her master’s degree from Berkeley in dance. The other couple at the dinner were Leandra, who is training to become a yoga instructor, and her boyfriend Steve, a fixture in Wellington polo who writes for the magazine his family owns – Polo Players.
The other guest was Ashley, also a high school buddy of Megan’s and Ross’s, who is now married to an Egyptian Muslim. She just went through her first Ramadan with no liquid or food ingested between dawn and dusk – and got ill after the first day and said, That’s it. I can’t do this. “Me, neither,” her husband said, and that was that for them.
At some point in all this discourse, I realized our new dining room table was being initiated in a way I hadn’t expected but welcomed completely. Our daughter had made salmon burgers for her friends, a going away party for Ross, and now our table suddenly possessed its first memory.
Twenty years from now, Rob and I will be in our eighties, and everyone at this table tonight will be in their forties. Tempus fugit, as my mother used to say. And as time flies, we build our memories, one moment at a time.















