Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Oh, if these walls could talk, the stories they could tell?’ Sunday night, I wondered if the same was true for furniture. 

As my family gathered around the dining table for another delicious meal prepared by my mom and followed by a game of cards, I couldn’t help but think about all the times we had come together around that very same table before. 

My parent’s dining table formerly belonged to my great-grandmother and held the weight of much food as well as many card games at her cottage on the beach.

When the cottage was remodeled into a year-round house, my mom inherited the table, and for as long as I can remember that table has been under my parent’s roof. 

So when we cleaned off the empty plates and took out the deck of cards, I thought of all the conversations we’ve had over dinner, the laughs over card games and the memorable moments, good or bad. 

The table was always set for dinner guests early in the day. More often than not, I was put in charge of setting the table because for some reason mom could never remember which way the forks and knives went. Part of setting the table was putting the leaves in place and my fingers have been scarred for life from the number of times they’ve ended up in the wrong place, at the wrong time, while setting up the table. 

When I was younger and we had large family meals or friends over, the children were often banished to the island in the kitchen while the adults had their own banter without our interruption. But with age comes wisdom (I hope), and the table was expanded for the “children” to join. 

A few years ago, a family member died and my cousins flew in from Indiana for the funeral, staying with us in the meantime. With copious amounts of food (and a few glasses of wine) we began discussing death and dying, how we want to “go” and how we would like our funerals to be. There was an extensive debate over cremation or burial, open or closed casket, mournful wake or celebratory party. While we came to no definite conclusion, it was a discussion we all found necessary in light of the circumstance.

On a lighter note, playing cards have slid their way across the table more times than I can remember. We’d play hand after hand of “31,” the lowest hand paying a quarter until their three quarters were gone and the winner’s prize was the pot of quarters. 

My great aunt was a cunning lady who knew how to trick us all and keep playing even though she should have been out five hands before. She loved cards, but not nearly as much as my great-grandmother. All you had to say was “Memere, do you want to play cards?” and Memere B, hard of hearing, sitting in her rocking chair, would pop right up and start dealing out the deck. 

While the dinners and card games may all blur together over time, they’ve all taken place on top of one table, and I can’t help but wonder, “Could this table, a piece of wood, harbor all those memories that might one day be forgotten?”

— Emma Bouthillette