Come to the table.

For the past five years, I've put off refinishing the old family table that sits in our kitchen. I stop myself whenever I get close to starting the job because I worry I'll wipe away too many blessed memories.

The table is about 25 years old now, maybe a bit older. All things considered, it's in decent shape, but it has seen better days. Many of the reasons it needs to be refinished--the cracks, the chips, the dents, the scratches--tell stories of growing up.

My sister and brother and I all did our homework there. We ate our meals, laughed, cried, and celebrated life there with my mother and father.

The table was literally the center of our home since it was the first thing anyone who came into the house would see. We always stopped there first when we walked in, even if it was just to take a breather before dashing off to some ball game or activity.

Whoever got the mail or the newspaper was responsible for tossing it on the table. Report cards to be signed and other important papers all had to stop at the table before going on to where they needed to go.

As the oldest, I was the first to do homework at the table, followed by my sister and, many years later, by my brother, who tried to write his name on it. You don't have to look hard to find some ink stains on the table and scratches that indicate some kind of math work that went through the notebook paper.

My father built a desk in the bedroom I shared with my brother so I could do homework there, but I preferred sitting at the table. I wanted to hear what was going on, see who was walking in, and smell what would be coming out of the oven.

No matter what else might be going on, we always sat together at the table for at least one meal each day. Mealtimes were savored and seasoned with stories of the day's events, the night's plans, and life's dreams.

When the dishes were cleared and we children were put to bed, my mother and father used to sit at the table and talk long into the night. I didn't understand then what they talked about, but now that I'm a husband and father I'd bet their conversations included some mention of kids, finances, work, life, and love. I will always remember hearing them laugh there.

My dad got engaged about seven years after my mother died, so we naturally celebrated his good news around the table. Later he told me that he and his bride-to-be, an exuberant widow who became my exuberant second mother, wanted to pass the table on to one of us.

My sister had no room for it, so it came my way. My wife and I had a beautiful table her father had made, but with our growing family, we needed something larger. Over one Easter weekend we put her father's table in one of the children's rooms and moved my family's old table into the dining room. Since we moved two years ago, we moved the table into our kitchen.

That table is the center of family life again, just as it was when I was a child. It's a little too big for the space we have, but we always manage to keep it loaded up with toys, tools, dolls, dishes, homework, and hamburgers.

After we put our children to bed, my wife and I often sit at the table and talk about kids, finances, work, life, and love. I want our children to always remember hearing us laugh there.

Late one night I got out an old rag and started to work on the table.

I ran my fingers slowly over the cracks and chips and dents and scratches. I saw where the finish is gone near the edges. I felt the places where as a child I carved my last name in front of where I used to sit, and where my brother bashed his fork as he was learning how to eat.

There were newer spots, too, from my children: pen marks from Matthew pressing too hard as he practices his handwriting, paint from one of Mary Grace's artistic efforts, and a ding from where Andrew bounced a toy tractor.

Someday I will have to refinish that table. But I think I'll wait just a little longer.

TOM MULLEN, assistant news editor at the Richmond Times-Dispatch in Richmond, Virginia and journalism instructor at the University of Richmond.