See this beautiful handcrafted table?
This handsome guy right here built it for me…and of course, there’s a story behind it.
For Christmas, I wrote down the story and had it engraved onto a piece of scrap wood from the table
Not just a table
Your Christmas present is going to be late, you casually mention.
And I might need some “me” time to get some stuff done.
Me, wanting more, Like what? I say.
And you bring me back to the dining room tables conversation we had days ago. When we discussed the three things we wanted to have in the new house.
A dining room table. That is one of mine.
What kind?
Like Lisa’s
And we scroll and look and play around with ideas of what the tables might look like in that space.
You tell me I say “space” too much.
Call it what it is, you say. It’s a kitchen, or a dining room.
No it’s not. It’s not mine yet. There’s nothing in it. It’s empty. Right now, it’s just a space.
A bench or chairs, you ask.
I don’t know. I can’t make that decision yet.
You need to. Sometimes things take time, and I need to know.
And we look, and I show him rustic farm tables with wooden bases.
And he says, No.
I laugh, What do you mean no?
Not like that.
What do you mean, not like that? Is it too far?
Is what too far?
Are you too far along? Too far in the process? Are you making me a table?
Making you a table? No
Why not?
Because if you didn’t like it, I’d be crushed. And now you won’t tell me you don’t like it, and you’ll spend years and years with a table you hate.
And he can’t hold it any longer. He wants me to know. But he still can’t come right out and tell me.
Only in pieces.
The top. Where it came from. It’s history. That he had his hands on it. An 80 year old slab. How he’s having the wood cut. I know how I want to put the top together. When I was a boy, I saw my grandfather and my dad do this. No nails, no screws. And my chest tightens even more. His family, his history. He wants to be ingrained in this piece.
The base. I have someone machining the base. But he’s getting it back. He wants his hands on that too. I’m getting it back so I can weld the frame myself, he says. I want to be able to say that I made it.
And my insides are warm, and even more than that. I feel it in my chest. I feel it in my throat.
Love.
And as he lays on the couch, I sit at his feet, staring at this man.
There’s more, he says.
Can it wait? Until Christmas?
He’s trying, but his look says no. He wants to finish the story. He’s been holding it alone and wants to share it with me.
The cross beam. I’ve been searching. He wanted something special. And he found it. An axe cut beam for the cross support. It came from a church in Boston.
And he’s looking at me. So deep. He wants to know. He needs to know. He’s waiting.
All of it, I say. Everything you said.
That’s why.
That’s why I’m going to love it. Because you made it special. I could just go out and get a table.
But our table will have a story.
Why? I ask. Why are you doing all of this?
And I feel undeserving. Undeserving of all his time spent thinking about me, what I want, what I like. And how to make it special.
And I feel guilt. Guilt for all the sadness I feel when he falls asleep exhausted from a long day’s work. I want more of him. More of his voice, more of his eyes, more of his face. Guilt for not understanding that he is giving me everything he has.
He says, Because you’re a good person, because you’re a good mom.
I listen, he says.
He speaks my language. He knows. He knows the story matters to me. It makes it special. It makes it mine.
As the boys ask, What Mom? I keep it. I hold onto it for now. I let it be just mine. I want to hold onto it forever, but I know it will seep out of me eventually. I will share the love. I will share the story.
But in this moment, it is mine to keep. The warmth. The love. The look.
All mine.
