The Weight of the Table

I keep a small, tarnished silver fork in my kitchen drawer, its handle worn smooth by the grip of a grandmother I barely knew. It is heavy for its size, a dense little anchor that reminds me how we once gathered around tables not just to eat, but to anchor ourselves to one another. There is a quiet, sacred gravity to a meal prepared with intention. It is a way of saying that we are here, that we are hungry, and that we are willing to share the bounty of the earth before the sun dips below the horizon. We spend so much of our lives rushing through the act of sustenance, forgetting that every plate is a map of where we have been and who we have sat beside. To feed someone is to offer them a piece of your own time, a fleeting gift that vanishes as soon as it is enjoyed. I wonder, when we finally clear the table, what remains of the hunger we once shared?

Bashar Alaeddin has captured this sense of abundance in his photograph titled A Rumpin’ Steak. It reminds me of the warmth found in a well-prepared meal and the simple joy of a table set for company. Does this image make you think of a favorite seat at a crowded table?