If my family’s kitchen table could talk … protest, giggle, sob, sing … I would hear the echoes of familiar voices, dating back decades. 

One of the very first pieces of furniture my mother bought when she moved out at age 19 was an antique claw-foot, round, solid oak dining table. 

In my fun-sized childhood home, the charming little table fit perfectly in the corner of our kitchen, its circumference just long enough for my four-person family to comfortably gather around. It can extend for a leaf to be placed in the middle, but I wasn’t aware of that for most of my life; it wasn’t needed. 

Accompanying it are four matching oak chairs, the backs of which have intricately engraved flowery designs that I would trace my finger on as a child, usually when stalling to finish my food. 

Throughout the years, somehow, the supporting spindles of these chairs have become loose, half-broken, or missing entirely. Each one I’m sure has a story long forgotten. For old times’ sake, I’ll just blame it on my brother.

When we eventually transitioned to our larger farmhouse in the countryside, we now had the space and necessity to utilize that leaf. I think there is something beautifully symbolic about our kitchen table growing along with us. 

In this chaotic, ever-changing world, it is one of the few things that has always remained still, always inviting and always willing to hold. To me, it has also been a symbol of sacrifice, hard work and gratitude to my parents for providing for us. 

All guests and extended relatives are welcome to join the celebration of food and togetherness. After all, the table’s oval design is meant to bring people together, to face one another.

It is remarkable how many prominent memories one piece of furniture can hold. I remember being there as a very young child, trying new and intriguing foods for the first time, either completely changing my life (shrimp) or vowing to never eat it again (olives). 

When my grandma used to arrive every morning at 6 a.m. to eat breakfast with me and my brother and take us to school, I remember having such compelling conversations that an hour would fly by, yet it only felt like 10 minutes. 

I still miss our little “breakfast club,” but the memories and laughter have seeped deep into that ancient oak, claiming their eternal home. 

Of course, our kitchen table is not exclusively used for meals. I would sit there after school for hours, crying over math homework I did not understand while my mother tried her best to help. 

Countless art projects, science fair boards, essays, campaign speeches and attempted “novels” were born there. 

Various holiday traditions are well-known by its surface: decorating sugar cookies and gingerbread houses, holding the vase of a fresh Valentine’s Day bouquet from my father to my mother, painting Easter eggs and dumping out the impressive haul of Halloween candy. 

It has proudly held every candle-lit birthday cake before my glowing eyes, sweetly singing along as it knows it’s growing older with us too. 

I have sat there while my mother did my hair for my first ballet recital at three years old, again for my first day of middle school at 11 and again for my first homecoming dance at 14, with many other instances in between. 

I have sat there, laughing uncontrollably, while we played a new board game for the first time. I have sat there, choking back tears, while being lectured for whatever mistake I made at whatever age I was. 

Most of all, I have sat there peacefully, in awe of the passing of time and grateful to have a reminder of everything this table’s been privy to.

I believe that the personification of my kitchen table would be a wise, tranquil old lady, crocheting a never-ending quilt of stories while swaying back and forth in an ancient wooden rocking chair. 

Her face would be lined with well-earned wrinkles from years of smiling, laughing and deeply contemplating, just like the hundreds of scratches, crevices and “imperfections” in our table from years of wear and tear. 

Throughout my life we have gotten new couches, TVs, flooring and decor—heck, we moved to an entirely different house—but the kitchen table has remained the same. Most other material items have been easily replaced, and yet this one has never even been considered. 

Have we subconsciously viewed it as irreplaceable? A part of the family? Personally, I see it as a reminder of how much my family has grown—literally and figuratively—the hardships we have overcome and the love we have shared.

Matczak can be reached at [email protected].