Richmond Street 
Miami, Florida
May, 1992

When I first heard the news that Dorothy was getting married, I felt joy and excitement. I had watched her over the past seven years plow through the many dead-end relationships, each suitor nowhere near her levels of grace, wit, and resilience. Then she met Lucas, an equal to her intellect, humor, and charm. And she seemed so happy. 

But if I’m honest, a part of me feels sadness. Dorothy marrying Lucas means that she’s moving out and leaving her chair at me empty. 

I don’t quite understand her decision to leave. You need strong legs to make a sturdy table, this I know. Dorothy leaving behind Blanche, Rose, and Sophia means that a leg in their friendship will go missing; their quartet will wobble. 

I’m assuming that in Lucas’s home at Hollingsworth Manor, his wealth will afford Dorothy a larger, grander kitchen table, perhaps one long and sophisticated made of solid wood with ornate carvings. 

Yes, admittedly I’m a bit jealous that Dorothy is choosing that design over me, but I can’t help but wonder whether a big table with empty chairs is what she wanted all along. 

Sure, I’m not much to look at, and often I’m covered by Blanche’s patterned tablecloths. But for the many times that she and the girls convened at me to indulge in their sacred late night digestive rituals, I thought they had become each others’ own love story. That this was their forever home. 

Ignorant table that I am though, with the news of Dorothy’s impending marriage, I’m beginning to wonder whether all paths -no matter one’s age or circumstance- must lead to marriage. That women -regardless of the need to bear and raise children- can only find home in the walls of a man. 

If this is true, then I suppose it’s lovely knowing that Lucas’s regal Atlanta home is filled with tastefully designed furniture. 

But I really can’t help but ask myself this lingering question: when life turns grim, and the day turns to night, in those soft, quiet hours, where in that big empty house will she eat her cheesecake? 

* * * * 

When Blanche’s husband passed, my existence went unnoticed for months. Not that George and Blanche were particularly chatty when they dined for breakfast and dinner, but they at least shared each other’s presence in comfortable, loving silence. Having known no others before them, this felt normal, and really, any gathering at me spurred my gratitude. 

As a grieving widow living solo, Blanche rarely visited the kitchen. Her appetite vanished. Over time, she’d occasionally migrate to the refrigerator and stand with the doors open, chewing on small bites of whatever she could stomach to regain sustenance for the many suitors she called on to distract her from her grief. 

Lonely as I was (and envious of the company that circulated through Blanche’s bed), I understood why Blanche couldn’t sit at me, the memories reminding her too much of George. So quietly, I sat idle in an empty kitchen for months. The only songs I heard were the occasional kettle whistling or the faucet running. 

Then one day my excitement creaked when I heard Blanche explaining to her son on the kitchen landline that she’s posting an ad for roommates. After all, she reasoned, the house had three perfectly lovely, extra bedrooms (and, I thought to myself, a vacant kitchen table). 

The first two roommates lasted just a short while. Blanche had kicked them out, but immediately reposted her ad and struck gold. 

Once Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia moved in, coming to me became their natural routine, mostly in the morning for their coffee -brave be the roommate who pestered Dorothy prior to her intake of caffeine- and in the evenings for dinner. 

Then, in the very late hours that inched towards midnight, I’d stir awake by the sound of the girls swinging the saloon door open and piling into the kitchen. Dressed in their flowing, colorful robes, they’d lament over their worries and troubles, as if their problems could only be solved by the quiet, judge-free night and the promise of sugary sweets. 

Though holding up their banquet of plates for these midnight chats tired me, I enjoyed their company immensely. I’d sit and observe like an audience member at a theater, listening attentively to the girls reciting their latest fears and dramas. Resting at me together, they had no resistance to their natural appetites. They indulged-in both the cheesecake and conversation- with no constraints or limitations. 

For these reasons, I’d like to think of myself as more than just polished wood, but a sort of holy site for these women. I know that’s quite presumptuous of me to say, seeing that I’m no ornate altar inside the Catholic churches Sophia speaks of. But I am the place where the girls come to pray. Of course, their prayers aren’t exactly traditional. And the words they share are usually in between bites of cheesecake or chocolate fudge ice cream. But I can feel their bodies relax when one of them offers words of support or a story.

Even if a tale is long-winded, pointless, and about some odd relative or bizarre farm animal from Rose’s hometown St.Olaf, I know that this is how the girls share pieces of each other. With each piece shared, they assemble this intricate, but delicate collage of connection, sisterhood, and most importantly: assurance that this collage-creating never has to stop (or so I thought).

Impressively, these four women have propped each other up through unimaginable trials: Rose’s HIV scare from a blood transfusion, Dorothy’s nearly missed chronic fatigue syndrome diagnosis, Blanche entering menopause, Sophia grieving the death of her son Phil, just to name a few. From surgeries of every kind -for hearts, feet, and hernias- to friends’ suicide contemplation, unemployment, ageism, cheating boyfriends, and cheating spouses, they’ve faced it all.

Throughout these heartwarming, tender moments, I was there, also holding them up. Through the deep anguish and fear and the love and the reassurance, I stoically propped up their forearms and held their plates and glasses. Sure, I may not be the specific places where the girls battled their toughest demons, but I am where they take their meals and cradle cups of hot coffee or tea to lick their wounds. I am where they hold communion, where they confess their deepest secrets or release their longest laughs. I am the circle that they crowd around to witness each others’ lives.

It’s true that these four women could easily find other spaces in the house to gather and take their meals if I didn’t exist -perhaps the wicker sofa or the patio furniture would do. They’ve proved they’re adaptive and capable, even more so now by the strong familial bonds they’ve created with each other. 

This is why I feel grateful that they chose to gather around me and allow me to be a part of their unexpected story, even if I’m an unknown character. I never imagined that four women could share a life together in this alternative way and flourish. But they did. And they did it not because of my existence, but they did make my existence matter. They made a kitchen table the sacred place where they would eat their cheesecake.~