The Tables of Our Lives

There are people who like vehicles, people who like buildings, people who like desks, and I understand all of them, but what I like is tables. Tables speak to me the way no other furniture does, and tables catch my eye faster than anything else. No matter where I am, I quickly scan the tables around me and choose my favorite, even though in reality I like all of them.

I like their stories, the tales written in them, in their marks, in their stains, in the many invisible arms who once rested in them. I like to imagine where they came from, where have they been, how they’ve come to be in front of me, and where will they go once they leave me, or I leave them.

Tables have been in the most important moments of my life, when I wrote things close to my heart, when I ate with dear friends, when I had a drink with loved ones, tables have always been the silent companion of my life. I know it sounds exaggerated, or hard to believe, but I remember every table that was around me when something important took place in my life.

I have always been interested in the table’s details, their colors, the drawings they carried with them, their designs. Tables, big or small, have to my understanding a certain solemnity other pieces of furniture do not have, they carry our past. Tables, some more than others of course, collect our stories and take them with them to places we could never image our stories would reach. Tables are the keepers of our fears and dreams, and of our heartbreaks.