On Sunday, I took the the kitchen set (not pictured) that was leftover from my time with D, and hauled it to the curb. I should've done it a year ago. Of all the leftover furniture from that relationship, only two pieces bore any significant emotional weight, the kitchen table and my desk. The desk was a gorgeous and perfect gift, cherry with a leather top, and I'd spent untold hours at it reading, writing, and drinking coffee. I sold it within a month of us splitting up, unwilling to keep a object so closely associated with my favorite pastimes. The necessary but otherwise nondescript kitchen table became a sore spot, a constant reminder of shared meals, drowsy conversations over early morning coffee, late night chats over snacks, the mundane interactions that add to a relationship. I hate furniture shopping and intended to refinish the table when I had a little free time. Let me tell you, being depressed eats up ALL of the free time, every last bit of it for months on end. And all the while there's this damn table sitting in the kitchen. Anyway, last Sunday dawned, a warm and beautiful day and I decided it was finally time to haul the table outside and get to work. Picked up a gorgeous cobalt blue for the legs, a stain for the top, and sandpaper for the belt sander that I'd kept (power tools have no emotional association at all for me and they're practical). Stopped at a tag sale ont he way home from the hardware store (Note: east of Worcester, they're called yard sales. Yaaahhd sales if you've got the accent. West of Worcester, and into CT, they're call tag sales. No idea why.) and there was this cute kitchen set, cheap and the seller offered to drop it off at my place. Free. Clearly it was a sign. And by Monday afternoon, some happy stranger had driven off with the curbed table and chairs. Finally the kitchen feels right again.