The Table has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, it was my fortress; I crawled under it, learning every crack and crevice from the underside. It seemed massive from my little girl perspective. Larger than life. The Table held a revered position in the household. It was old, older than all of us put together – and that even included my dad. It was old, but it was perfect. From the intricately-carved claw feet to the highly-polished, pristine ebony top with grooved edge. But all that wasn’t readily evident, because the Table was securely and doubly protected with padding and a table cloth. Always. My mom – who took great pride and joy in preserving the perfection of the table – wasn’t taking any chances, especially not one that could result in a scratch.
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