One evening after sitting for hours around a friend’s kitchen table with a bottle of wine (well, maybe two), our laughter quieted to take on a more serious tone. The subject, remarkably the table at which we sat. Our friend apologized for its age, for the table had sat in that same place since they had built their home decades ago. But then she started recalling the importance that simple table had played in their lives. It was meant to be temporary, stained with coffee, wine, life. It had seen their son grow from an infant to a young man. It had seen so many years of joy, and so many days of sadness. It had heard countless stories of the past, and…