A kitchen table memory:
I am eight years old. I am alone at the kitchen table, poking at the cold remains of dinner on my plate. My father and brother have already eaten and gone. My mother is at the sink doing dishes, her back to me. I have been told to sit alone for as long as it will take to finish the cold remains of dinner on my plate. I have been told that I am a “slow eater.” I have been told that I talk too much during meals.
The brown formica-top kitchen table my parents purchased after their marriage in 1952, used as a kitchen table until my mother’s death this past June, is now the work table in my home office. Inheriting this kitchen table and re-purposing it in our home is affecting me in ways I could not have imagined.
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