My kitchen table is where I sat with my mom when we worked for hours on math homework until I understood how to solve simple third grade math problems.

It is where my mom told me she was pregnant.

It is where my family carves pumpkins.

Where we have Thanksgiving.

Where we sort Christmas ornaments.

Where big birthday cakes sat in front of googly eyed four year olds.

Where Mom helps me sort valentines for my class.

Where we dye easter eggs.

But sometimes

Sometimes my table was empty,

and my family had to eat at the food pantry.

I was in middle school,

and my bully was volunteering at the pantry.

She stood on the other side of the table,

and her family was handing my family our plates of food.

Her perfect Pantene hair sat in a braid.

Mine in a rats nest hidden under a winter hat.

When I got home my mom sat me down

at my kitchen table,

rubbing my shoulders and cooing soft words of reassurance.

Hot tears slipped out of my eyes

And splattered on the wood table before me.

My mom told me something so corny, but so true.

Tough times don’t last.

Tough people do.