The table. It's old, ancient really, made up of old grenadilla wood that is illegal to own now. It was also quite large, comfortably seating fifteen people around it.
It has been sitting in the family home out on the farms since the nineteenth century, the only place with a large enough dining room that could accomodate the girth of the table. Thanksgiving, birthdays, Christmas, all the major festivals have seen action with the table as the centre of attraction.
You can say that the table is a memver of the Tellington family as any other. And it is because of this table that the latest family squabble came about.
I'm part of the latest generation of adults in the family. Pa and Ma are old. Nearing seventy, both of them, while the rest of us are fast approaching forty ourselves. They haven't been running the farm for a long while; my elder brother had been helping with the farm, and even he was starting to feel the aches and the encroaching overrun of technology and economics. A family meeting was called, and all of us were present.
Everyone agreed it was time to sell the farm and move Pa and Ma to the city. But when it came to the table, there was an impasse. Pa and Ma wanted the table to go with them, but its size made it neigh impossible to move anywhere else.
Voices were raised, tempers flared, but nothing productive came out of the discussion.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 01-Apr-2014 21:37:17)
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