The Old Table

Not long after we got married, we bought a table. Or really, we picked the thing that looked most like a table among the things we could afford. The place had a lot of empty space in it, and our bank account had more. At the furniture store, my wife ran her palm across the surface and asked, "Not bad, right?"

I checked the price tag first. $199.

"Looks great to me."

Back then, our taste and our budget were pretty much the same thing.

It was dark brown, with a wood-grain pattern. I wanted to believe it was real wood, but a few years later a corner chipped and underneath was pressed sawdust. Still, it was heavy, it seated four, and it fit our kitchen exactly. At the time, that was plenty.

For the first few years, that table did more than hold meals. We spread out tax forms on it and punched numbers into a calculator. I took apart a broken toaster on it and ended up breaking it worse. My wife sewed on buttons there, and I sorted bills by date. Before summer vacations we'd unfold a map and circle places much too far away for us to go. And there were all those Sunday mornings when we got up late and did nothing but drink coffee. Looking back, those were the real luxury.

The marks piled up. There's a faint ring from a hot pot set down without a trivet, a stain from a tipped wine glass, and a deep scratch that we still blame on each other.

"You did that."

"Why would I scratch the table?"

"You break things very creatively."

The longer you're married, the more important it gets to keep a suspect around than to find out the truth. The scratch is still there, and the culprit is still at large.

Meanwhile, everything else in the house got replaced. The couch, the bed, the TV. The fridge, twice. Only the table stayed. We talked about replacing it a few times. We looked at pictures online. We went back to the store and ran our hands over the smooth tops. Once I had my card halfway out of my wallet. But every time, we went home and the idea just fizzled. The new ones were nicer, sure. They just didn't feel like ours. Ask me why and I couldn't tell you.

Last winter, I think it was, on a night when the snow was coming down hard, my wife set a pot of soup in the middle of the table. It was just the two of us, and the other two seats were empty. When we were young, I used to complain that four seats was too small. At some point it had become far too big for two people. I picked up my spoon and my eyes landed on the tabletop. All those marks that would've upset me on a new table looked, that night, strangely welcome.

"Somebody's gotten old," my wife said, blowing on her soup.

"Handsomely, I'd say."

"I meant the table."

"So did I."

We both laughed. It wasn't even funny, and we laughed for a long time.

People ask now and then why we hang on to something so beat up. Honestly, we're not sentimental about things. We throw out what we don't use. But there are some days this table won't let go of. The first time we had guests, our friends Jenny and David came up from San Diego. My wife had made shepherd's pie, Caesar salad, and cream pasta, and there was no way it was all going to fit on the table in proper dishes. She just set the pots down in the middle and said, "Tonight, this is the buffet," grinning like she'd planned it all along. The day I lost my job, neither of us ate much. We just sat there, and she reached over and took my hand without a word. Days like that are stacked up in that table. That's why I can't throw it out.

A few weeks ago my wife asked again. "Should we finally replace it?"

One leg wobbles now, and the top doesn't shine anymore, even when I wipe it down. We can afford a new table. We're not the couple checking the price tag first anymore. But what came out of my mouth was, "Let's keep it a little longer."

"Since when are you sentimental?"

"I'm not. I just don't want to assemble a new one."

That was true, too. Just not all of it.

That night we sat across from each other and ate, like always. Under the table, my foot bumped hers. When we were young, that would've been footsie. Now neither of us moved. Two plates of pasta, two glasses of water, and the table holding them up, not moving either. None of the three of us said a word.

Someday the table will leave our house, too. It's furniture, after all. But until then, I don't mind getting old a little longer next to it. It got old before we did, and it's still holding up pretty well.

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