There is a table in our living room that comes from my dad’s mother’s house. We called her Nanny and she lived in a big house in south Texas. When she died, my parents took a few tables, some artwork and some kitchen pieces. They placed the table that I now own on a landing right off the stairway in the home where I grew up. It held decorative items and often became a drop spot for a lot of junk.

Whenever I dust this piece, or water the plants that live there, I remember how much life this table has witnessed in the generations of our family. Yesterday, I was vacuuming under the table and noticed the cross piece where it had broken and been repaired. The reason for that break hit me with sorrow as I know that it was caused by some of the dysfunction that we tried to keep hidden. The anger, addiction, sadness, and grief that led to that broken table has partially healed, but the effects of them are still present. The spot where the table was glued back together is noticeable. It was not an expert job, but one that was good enough to make the table usable again. There are many days and weeks where I do not see the scar, but it is always there. I could clean up the glue and make it look more presentable, but I think I will leave it just like it is so that I can always remember that healing is messy.