do you remember the table. you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but do you remember the table. the garage sale your mother went to one summer morning and the beginning of the end. the small wooden table she couldn't help but to buy for the day that will never come. you buried it's possibility of existing the day you decided to let me go. but back to this table. do you remember it yet. how we imagined making pancakes in the morning and sitting at that table over cups of cold orange juice and warm breakfast and happy hearts. helping the kids with their homework and doing... other things I'm not comfortable discussing with your mother when she asks what we'll do with it one day. you know. you used to want me in any way you could get me. now I write the names of the children we will never have until my hands shake. I make too many pancakes and pour four more glasses of juice than I need for the family we will never create. it's a habit I can't seem to break. just tell me that you remember the table.