Dear Table & Chairs,
We've had an interesting history, you and I.
I first saw you in a furniture show room and fell in love. Black and square, you were exactly what I wanted in my house; even though you were the first one I saw, I didn't want to look at any other dining sets. It took some serious persuasion for my better half to agree to bring you home, but last October we did, just before Halloween. Oh, how I loved giving up our ratty old dining set for your sleek and stylish self, even if you were too big for our tiny dining room. I had dreams of a bigger house and a better space, but I could wait for that.
As it turns out, the bigger house was closer than I thought.
We had to shrink you down and dress you up with borrowed decorations while our little house waited to be sold. But you were so stinkin' cute and I enjoyed you every day.
Then, in May, Garry and I ventured to a far-off land in search of the aforementioned bigger house. In every single house, we looked for that perfect spot for you, our fancy new table and chairs.
In every house, we walked away frustrated. There wasn't room for your squareness. Not anywhere. (At least in our price range.) Our real estate agent probably thought Garry and I were a little kooky when we spent more time analyzing dining room configurations than just about anything else.
And then we found the perfect house. The one. It practically spoke to my soul, and I knew it was home. And I knew I would have to give you up. You just wouldn't fit in a long and narrow space. Character and charm had to bow to functionality.
So, with a great deal of regret and coulda-woulda-shoulda conversations in our brains, we put you up for sale. People offered to pay a tiny bit for you and we scoffed. Then, as our moving date drew closer, we started begging our friends to buy you. They didn't. On moving day the movers loaded you carefully into our van, along with your oh-so-heavy-and-expensively-custom-made glass top, just so you could sit in our garage and collect dust while a new, pretty-but-not-as-spunky table took your place in our dining room.
As the months dragged on, you became the bane of my existence, the symbol of dumb decisions and wasted time and everything frustrating in my life. Why couldn't we sell you? Why did fraudulent freaks keep trying to steal you from us? Why didn't we take the first wad of cash someone waved in our faces in Beaverton? It was silly, really, but seeing you leaning up against the wall, chairs in neat rows, legs lying on the floor, drove me crazy.
When it got cold and Garry's car deserved a covered parking space, you took up residence in our basement. I resigned myself to the fact that you'd always be with us, sitting downstairs where you took up too much space instead of serving your real purpose in a dining room.
But then, on Saturday, a nice lady came to look at you. And she wanted to take you home. It sounds like she has a fancy Pottery Barn house, so you'll fit right in. You'll be loved. And you'll get to be more than a storage surface, a craft table, a dust collector, or a resented object. You'll get to be what you were meant to be: an adorable, perfect-for-me dining room table with six matching chairs and a to-die-for bench.
I will miss you.
But at the same time, I am so glad that you're gone.