This Thursday afternoon found me in the living room ironing shirts, using a ironing board perched atop the coffee table and watching old episodes of Law and Order on the T.V.
I’m ironing my husband’s shirts for him to pack in a suitcase and take with him to a conference in San Francisco. With each stroke of hot iron over wrinkled cotton, the legs of the coffee table slowly creak and shift beneath.
I’ve been having a hard time letting go of this wretched coffee table. It is poorly constructed, built from scrap wood several years ago. I used no plans or directions, only a vague idea in my head of how a coffee table should be… of how this coffee table should be. It sits in the middle of the living room rug on wobbly legs which, after being taken apart and reconstructed any number of times, are much less stable than they originally were.
The table has surface scratches on it’s surface. The table is ugly. It is ugly and weak.
I was dealing with some stuff when I built the coffee table, working myself out. That is why I enjoy making things with my hands; each nail and board speaks something to me.
I’m having a hard time parting with this coffee table, but it no longer serves its purpose.