I grew up, the whole of my life, with one dining room table. It’s heavy but thin. Angular when collapsed and smoothed outsides in the middle when extended to fit our large family. It still sits in my parents’ home. Every trip we make, we gather around, meals piled in the middle to be served counterclockwise, surrounded by dishes and condiments and as I sit, time bridges and it feels just as it did all of my growing up years: towers of biscuits and bowls of gravy, taco salad mixed to the perfect nacho cheese chip to lettuce ratio, chocolate pudding pies, a work surface for canning and bread making. It was our home’s heartbeat, figuratively, but literally as well, situated where it was, in the upper left corner as seen from the front door. As things changed, people moved out, paint done and redone, it was the forever constant.