You once wrote of me that I am like a chair not a comfortable one but strong and supportive.
Today I write to you to say that you are the table at which we dine at every night.
Your thick oak limbs have held more difficult decisions than traditional cuisine
and your back has prepared us for wars we were never going to win, yet here we are.
The kitchen table is radiant, grilled sardines waft through the air, every chair is taken.