Confessions of a Coffee table

The house which my husband inherited from his parents has stood where it is today for more than half a century. It is a two-storey building which measures six by twenty meters. The horizontal walls on the sides are made of wooden slabs which have already shrunk battered by the angry sun and rain. The gaps between the slabs are so wide which can bare the soul of the cavernous upper storey. The rusty nails struggle to hold the slabs in place so that falling debris can’t hit any passerby.

The frontage of the first storey is enclosed by a fanlike paneled-door held together by old, rusty hinges. Every time it is pushed open, the shrieking and gritting sounds of the hinges make one crazy. As soon as the folded panels hit the post, the whole house quivers with a thud, as though Cyclops enter the cave. One’s energy is sapped in this kind of routine for years until in old age it wane.

It is time for repair!

The slabs and posts were given out to friends. Many were lusting for the panels of the door because the wood despite its age was so durable and priceless. I kept them. I had them dismantled and every material was accounted for. Stingy? Not quite. Just attached deeply! The door reminded me of tales of happiness and woes, successes and failures of three generations who once passed this way.

First Generation

All six boys, my husband and his siblings spent their grown up years in this house. They came from the city within the island where their flourishing business was razed down by fire. The door of this house was a silent witness to struggles collectively survived by a closely knit family. Their father, a courageous entrepreneur, opened wide the door  to send off his sons to college in a far away city with a firm instruction  not to enter that door again unless they bring home diplomas for a career. The sweet and pretty mother stood by his man through good and bad times. She made regular visits to her sons as soon as there was extra money.

Years after, the same door opened to a Law graduate, two doctors, two commerce graduates and a medical technologist. They came home one after the other to treat their parents to a good life. They never had a reunion of any sort as each found their niche under the sun.

One day, they all came home to push the door wide open giving way to the hearse of the dear old mother and only lady of the house to pass through. They ushered her to the final resting place where she could never push open the door again.

Second Generation

I was the third bride who opted to stay in this house as my husband took over the family business. I brought home the first girl in the family, a cute baby with Chinita eyes, dimpled cheeks and flawless skin. She was a delight to her grandfather and uncles would say, she looked like their mother. Every five o’clock in the morning the grandpa would open the door, put a chair nearby so he could sit with the baby on his lap. He recited his mantra saying, “My granddaughter will be a doctor when she grew up!” As the sun was rising, the old man was unmindful of the brightness because to him it would soon set, but the little girl would squint as she happily hails the morning, a great promise of hope. Three years after the same door opened for her grandfather to pass through never to see her a nurse later.

I continued to put on feminine touches in the house. I was into embroidery. In between feeding time of my second child who was a boy and looking after the two year old girl, I managed to do some French needle embroidery on a 36x32 size of sackcloth. It took me a year to complete the design. I framed the finished product and it was then hanging on the wall.

This frame now has been a witness on how my own siblings visited and some stayed with me   for financial or emotional support since our mother lost her battle to cancer. The house with an old door must be a nurturing haven of successful occupants. My younger siblings were all successful in their own chosen field.

The door and the frame have heard the first cry of a baby boy who was the first to be born in this house. Neighbors came rushing passed the door and the hanging on the wall to welcome the new baby! He must be a delight to everyone.


the embroidery on the background with my youngest
son who is now 31 years old

These silent spectators must have seen how I sent out my only daughter to stay with her husband. Oh, she was looking back to the comforts of her home. My heart bled to see her go but was it not said in the holy writ that “a woman must leave her father and mother and cling to her husband?”


I went back to full time teaching after my third child. The door was opened to my student contestants who came for practice. Many won different contests but only one came back to say “thank you”. One dusk, the door was ajar waiting for the children to come home. A figure squeezed in and as he came near the light there was a flash on his chest, “A medal”, I muttered. My notorious student won in the Division level oratorical competition! He stood in front of me as I was breastfeeding my baby while viewing the hanging on the wall. He saluted and holding his medal said, ”This is the first medal in my whole life. If not for you, I can’t have this. It has restored my father’s trust in me. Thank you so much, Ma’am!” As he squeezed out of the door I followed him with my gaze. The gold medal still hanging on his neck flashed like lightning under the street lamps. He was so proud like a ”cock with its first spur”.  He joined the military after graduation, married his high school sweetheart and basked in a brief and blissful marriage. He did not enter my door again because he perished in an ambush.

Third Generation

The shouts and peals of laughter of little boys started ringing in the house again. One would lean against the door, pushed his back against the shrieking frame which made rhythmic sound. The other would get a stone and knock the door to make his grandpa aware of his presence. Sometimes they would get out slowly, careful not to touch the door so no one would know they ran to a computer shop nearby. They were so smart, their reasoning power cannot match our experience in child rearing. But they were jewels just the same. They left for another country and we missed them a lot.

The Coffee table

The hanging on the wall I made forty years ago found its way in the kitchen where it was drenched when it rained. The thread had gathered dust and the frame was now eaten by termites. I was about to throw it but hesitated. This has been here since my children were toddlers, surely it would tell a story. I removed the sackcloth from the frame and washed it. It was as good as new.  From the door frame I kept was fashioned a center table. The hanging on the wall became its top cover.

Now the embroidery and the door panels met and whispered secrets of the stories they have known and witnessed from the three generations. They have settled among the antiques in the house. Surely no one would learn of the memories by just merely looking at this work of art except those who have been part of the house once. They can tell the story of a coffee table.