When I was younger, the walnut drop-leaf table, better known as the dessert table, was stretched to capacity and turned diagonally in the small kitchen; it was the Christmas Eve dessert table at my grandparents’ house. The rest of the year, leaves removed or dropped, the table was just there, snugged up against the peninsula’s back wall. It held the minutiae of everyday life—decorations and souvenirs, to-do lists and grocery lists—just stuff. As my grandparents aged, the table was often cluttered, but on Christmas Eve, it returned to its holiday glory, proudly bearing homemade treats to tempt all generations.
These days, the dessert table lives in my house and my cats believe it to be theirs. Most years, the table is in its smallest form except for Christmas morning brunch. For that one day, the table belongs to the humans. This year is different, though. This year, I made noodles for a family dinner. The dessert table is the largest work surface in my house, so I broke three feline hearts and commandeered the table. And yes, I thoroughly cleaned it—don’t worry.
As I rolled and rolled, cut and cut, my fingertips grazed the table’s many scars. I’m at least the fourth generation of Cuba family to use this table. It’s entirely possible my great-grandfather built the table. Over the course of its 120 years, this table has seen some life. Those scars are knife marks—someone chopped something, over and over, on this table. Later, the table was used, but more gently. Now, it is a grand buffet for three spoiled cats. All along, it has been loved.
Now for the non sequitur entry . . .
Last week, I reconnected with a friend I haven’t seen in maybe 20 years. Thanks, Facebook. I’ve known her for 35 years; when we met, I was a freshman in college. She knew my kids when they were young, but life happened and we lost touch before my three got very old.
I’m thrilled to have found her online and I hope we can maintain contact, but it’s been so long. Specifically, she knew me before. She knew Before Tonya, but does she, can she know After Tonya? Will she even want to know After Tonya? I know I’m not the person I was when we last spent time together. Not even close, and I’ve stopped trying to be Before Tonya. All that trying is exhausting. All that pretending is just too much. I’m After Tonya, and learning to be a different iteration of Tonya is an ongoing process. I’m not talking grey hair and wrinkles; that happens to everyone. I’m talking brokenness. I’m talking dragging a wagonload of sadness in a wagon with a wonky wheel. I’m talking scars and stories and tears and trauma. I’m a delight.
So.
I hope we find our way into a friendship rhythm but I understand if we can’t.
When I think about the dessert table in its life before it came to live with me, I don’t remember the gouges, the scars, the imperfections, even though they were certainly there all my life. I remember a table laden with cookies and pies and candies. I remember my aunts and uncles and cousins swiping treats—brace yourself—before dinner. I remember love and family and home.
It wasn’t until the table became mine that I found the marks. They are mostly in one area of the table; whoever was doing the chopping had a spot. The table has been refinished over the years, but the scars remain. Are they too deep to be sanded? Maybe, but maybe not. What I do know is that I will never try to remove the scars. In my heart and in my mind, those scars tell the table’s story. It withstood years of sharp metal edges and the abuse of everyday use. It survived. I could cover it with a tablecloth or runner, but I don’t. I love it precisely as it is, scars and stories and squeaks and all.
The table is the culmination of its long life, from the hand tools of its beginning to my dad’s gentle repairs after a misadventure with one-too-many leaves a few years ago. After Tonya is also a culmination of a life—the greatest blessings cleaved by the greatest tragedy. Our scars tell our stories.
Woods Writes 