Grand Central Station

When I think about this kitchen table, the one at my childhood home, it brings back so many memories.

It’s the place where meals were at (sometimes together, but mostly alone after swim practice).  It’s the place where homework and projects were done.  It’s the place where my family (immediate and extended) sit and talk for hours.  It’s the place where I remember Justin belly-laughing the most at the chaos around him.  It’s the place where the perfect cup of tea is shared.  It’s the hub of the Wetmore’s Grand Central Station: phone ringing, door opening with no knocking, laughing, crying, you name it…it’s  happened at this table.

As I sit at this table, thinking of all these memories, I flashback to freshman year of high school.  Every night, after swim practice, I’d sit at the kitchen table.  I’d work on homework, eat dinner, catch up on the day with my mom.  My siblings would be taking showers or watching TV unwinding.

But one night stands out.  It’s a night in November of my freshman year and I had a swim meet, a LONG swim meet.  I didn’t realize how long it was going to be or how much traffic we were going to get in on the way home.  I had a project to complete that night and was freaking out…I was already tired, and had morning swim practice.  It was a project about my dream job.  I had printed all the pictures out for this project but still needed to cut them, glue them and caption them.  

I walked in the front door crazed, “It’s so late!  How am I ever going to get this project done?  Can I just not go to school tomorrow?”

My mom calmly replied, “we’ll get it done.  Don’t worry.  But tell me about your meet first.”  

“I can’t.  I have too much work to do.”  

“We’re a team.  Let’s do it together,” mom said evenly.  “Brett, Tori…come help.” 

And with that the Wetmore’s Grand Central Station turned into a cutting and gluing factory.  

The kitchen table.

The keeper of many stories.

The hub of the Wetmore house.