Twenty years ago my husband and I took our sleep-deprived, parents-of-young children selves and our toddling, rampaging brood of 3 (I swear it felt like thirty) to find a capacious, durable, affordable kitchen table. Two decades later that long pine table, the one holding up this laptop as I type, is still the centerpiece of every significant thing our extended family does together. In this odd season of gatherings suspended, what memories does your, or a loved one’s, table spark?

everyone who has ever
leaned forearms or
elbows or hands
or hips on this
cup-dented,
child-initialed,
craft project
gold glittered,
dinner-serving,
breakfast-rushing,
sunlight battered pine
lives on in its cellulose fibers.
this table is a poem of connection.