I'd had the coffee table for thirty-three years. It held special memories.
- My oldest son had used a pencil to carve his first picture that looked like anything into the wood on top. It was a circle with stick arms and legs sticking out. At the time I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; to praise or punish. Years of wood polish had covered the evidence. The little man was no longer visible, but I still could point to the exact spot.
- It's drawer held photos from years of birthday parties, Christmas celebrations, picnics, and graduations waiting to be put into albums.
- I could recall the fragrance of hundreds of flowers carefully arranged into elegant (and some not so elegant) bouquets that had graced its surface.
More recently, Freckles found comfort perched on the flat platform under one end of the table and she enjoyed nibbling on the magazines that rested on the other (magazines we had left there for her to chew and to think she was getting away with something!)
But, polish no longer hid the marks and dents of thirty years of family living. I was tired of having an eyesore in the middle of my living room. I knew exactly what I wanted to purchase to replace it. I didn't know how Freckles would take the change.