My husband was sick. Cancer. Advanced. Terminal. It was time to put the bed downstairs.

But before I could bring the bed down, I had to take the table up. I enlisted the help of my two grown children. My son lives just 10 minutes away and had been with me every step of his Dad’s illness and diagnosis. My daughter lives in another state and had flown in to help me make the transition from hospital to hospice.

We were standing in my husband’s hospital room when daughter declared, “The first thing we need to do is get rid of that table. It’s too heavy to take upstairs.”

“No, that’s not going to happen,” I said.

“Mom, you’ve got to downsize. And that table is way to heavy for us to move it upstairs,” she said.

No, I’m not getting rid of my table,” I said.

“Mom, you’ve got to start downsizing. You have too much stuff and you’re going to have to move, so you need to start getting rid of things,” she said.

No, I don’t,” I said.

“Yes. You do.” she said, in her best “store manager” voice.

“No. I don’t. And don’t talk to me like I’m one of your sales associates,” I said, my voice now beginning to crack. “I am about to lose the most important thing in my life and I will not lose another thing.” The crying started.

Now, you might be thinking, “What’s the big deal about this table?” But, to me it was a big deal. You see, that table has been with me from the start, It predates my marriage. We’ve got a long history together and I wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.

When I graduated from high school, I moved to New York City all by myself. I had dreams of getting a job and an apartment and living like Marlo Thomas in the television series “That Girl,” or Mary Tyler Moore in her series about a single woman living in St. Paul. I went to school, majoring in fashion merchandising, and eventually moved back to my home state of North Carolina to continue pursuing my dream.

I was so happy the day I rented my first apartment! I was finally going to become that independent woman I had dreamed of being. But with a new job that just covered rent and utilities there wasn’t a lot left for furniture.

One day I got a call from my mother saying that a girl she worked with was selling her kitchen table and she thought I might like it. She gave me the address and I drove over to the lady’s apartment. She met me at the door and took me into the kitchen explaining that there was a contemporary smoked glass and chrome table she wanted (this was the 70s after all) and that was why she was selling her table. It had been her grandmother’s table. Her grandmother had given it to her when she moved into her first apartment.

When I saw the table my heart flipped. It was love at first sight. It had a square porcelain top that sat on a thick wood base of four legs that curved toward each other, resting on a four-leg pedestal. The legs and base were painted yellow with red painted accents cut into the wood, Since this table was probably about 30 years old at the time, the paint was a bit faded and chippy. But it was the top that was so amazing. The top was porcelain enamel over metal, a production technique that was first produced in the 1920s and popular throughout the 30s, 40s, and 50s. The surface enamel resembled wood grain and creamy colored maple leaves were inlaid on each corner and in a four-leaf clover pattern in the center. There was a bright red border along the edges of the top. One of its best features is that the top was in three sections, allowing you to tuck them under the center panel to make the table a smaller rectangle shape. There was even an electrical outlet and a knife sharpener on the side. She wanted $35.00 for it, which I happily paid.

That’s also when I discovered the heft of this table. The legs and base were solid pieces of wood. It took both of us to heave it out of her apartment and into the back on my little Toyota station wagon. On my way home, I had to figure out how to get it up the stairs to my apartment.

My love of old things spans decades. This table is one of my first old thing purchases and the only thing from my single girl days that I have left. This table has been with me through every phase of my life: the disco days, courtships, my life as a newlywed, as a new mother, and as a new grandmother. It’s been there for births, baptisms, birthdays, anniversaries, confirmations, graduations, when the nest was full, when the nest was empty and, now, death. It has been a breakfast table, a desk, a place to put my painter’s palette, a dining room table, and a catchall table. It has witnessed countless card games, meals, homework, and craft projects. It has listened to whispered conversations and loud confrontations. It has lived in 16 different places, spanning 4 states. And, yes, it has been a beast to move every time.

To say my husband hated this table is a vast understatement. He definitely hated moving it, but most of all he hated sitting at it. Even with the leaves pulled out, his long legs could never quite fit under the table. To accommodate him, I purchased a legitimate dining room table and used the porcelain-top table as a desk. The only thing I love almost as much as I love him is that table.

Why do we get so attached to things? For me, that table is more than metal and wood. It’s more than memories. It’s an anchor to my past. It’s a validation that I have lived a long life, full of ups and downs and lots of in betweens. It’s a symbol that once my life felt full of possibilities and while everyone else was choosing smoked glass and chrome, I chose something completely out of step with the times. It was my fledgling attempt at discovering who I was and what my true authentic self liked. It was me adulting like I never had before.

Now, its a symbol of comfort, solidity, security. I may be losing the love of my life, but this old friend will still be with me in this next phase of my life. I look at it, now upstairs, and feel grateful that it’s still here, just like me.