The stout oak table with six-inch legs found in my basement has been used as a nightstand since we moved into this 100-year-old, Sears-built home. I only used it as a nightstand because our mattress lay on the floor since I hadn’t bought a bed frame, and the table was only about a foot tall for some odd reason — perfect for the height of the bed. 

My fiancée and I purchased the home from her grandmother, Luann, who once lived there with her late husband Maj who endured polio for most of his life. Luann left plenty of furniture, well-read books cracked at the binding, the art she made herself, knick-knacks and miscellaneous things for us to keep, including the little, one-foot-tall oak table. Because Maj suffered from polio and was an avid poetry writer and teacher, I can only assume that the table was specially made for him since he was unable to use his legs and spent most of his time on the floor reading, writing and drinking coffee at a table that was perfect floor-sitting height. His undersized desk has a perfectly circular stain from the many cups of coffee drank and multiple cracks from the natural fluctuation of temperature in the house throughout the seasons. 

I know the stain must be from coffee because I’ve met many of Maj’s poet and professor friends, attended poetry readings where everyone drank coffee no matter the time of day and saw photographs of Maj himself sitting at his table reading, betting on horses and drinking coffee. I know the cracks must be from age and temperature because my fiancée is a woodsman and taught me that wood checks when it dries and settles into itself — that’s when you know the wood is dry enough to burn. Maj’s energy and words have been burned into the memories of his loved ones, including me, who has never met him. I can feel that this table holds memories of a rich and supple life; it tells a story of family, warmth and passion. 

Through photos and stories, I’ve learned that this hobbit-sized but law-making table has supplied a perfect vice for creation and friendly conversation, and although a toddler’s feast table, hundreds of people have had a seat around it in boundless welcome and embrace. The wise surface has stopped being an object and more of a quintessential centerpiece to a love-filled home that grips the spirit of protection, curiosity and unbeknownst whim.

Carlina Krajnik is an opinion writer. Contact her at [email protected].