“But how does it make you feel?” It’s out before I realize what I’ve said.
He pauses. “How does it make me feel?”
It’s not that he hasn’t heard me or doesn’t understand my words. We’ve already talked about the need. The money. The style. He just can’t understand why I’m making the process of buying a new table emotional.
“Yes.” I’m owning it. “How do you feel about this table?” Not a table. Not any table. But this table. How do you feel about this table?
He shakes his head. “I like the table.” Concrete. He does not, will not, connect feelings to tables.
Before this interaction, I hadn’t realized: I do.
I cut my teeth and started eating mashed peas in a metal and plastic highchair pulled up to a dark brown, oval laminate table in a small wood paneled kitchen in a college town in western Ohio. The table had a seam down the center which my parents would pull apart from opposite ends to make room for a leaf or two, should company come over. It’s tapered metal legs ended in flat silver feet . . .
. . . please click onto Coffee+Crumbs to read the rest of this essay, about the tables we set and sit at throughout our lives.