Nine years ago, I moved into my first apartment in Durham, North Carolina. I had lived in an apartment before, but this was the first one to have my name on the lease, and it was the first apartment I ever had to furnish myself. For the first few weeks, my roommate and I lived on folding chairs, but then Em stepped in. As a young single guy working in churches miles away from home, I acquired a few surrogate parents along the way with the first and undisputed champion being Emily Gamble, my “mom away from mom.” On hearing how little furniture we had, Em made an offer: “I’ve got an old coffee table I’m replacing. Come down, borrow the truck, and take it to your place. You can even swing by the pharmacy and borrow the dolly. Keith said it’s okay.” And so, on a warm August afternoon, I got in my car and started the 85-mile drive to Em’s house in Fremont, NC.

I swung by the local pharmacy and picked up the dolly as instructed, and when I got to Em’s house, I had a surprise waiting for me. For some reason, I had imagined the coffee table as some petite, particle board affair (like so much of the furniture found in the average 20-something’s apartment). Instead, I was greeted by a solid wood behemoth, easily in excess of 100 pounds and with space enough to host a board meeting. How on earth was I going to get this thing down Em’s stairs, let alone into my small apartment?

I called on every bit of high school physics I could remember, at last taking advantage of the house’s wheelchair elevator to maneuver the table into the back of the truck. Back at my apartment, I placed rugs strategically at the back door (which had fewer steps) and managed to maneuver the beast into the center of our living room where it resided for three years. Though the elegant table seemed out of place alongside our thrift store couch and folding chairs, we deeply appreciated its presence. My roommate and I had no trouble hosting parties around that table, during which it picked up its share of stains and scratches. Of course, our favorite party game was to surprise guests more used to cheap lightweight furniture: “Hey, think you can lift this table?” Not many could.

When I moved to Tampa, the table came with me. This time, it had to travel up two flights of stairs to my new place, a feat made possible by a dolly, bungee cables, and more than a few prayers. “I have to move it on my own,” I told a neighbor as I caught my breath on the landing, “it’s become a tradition.” The table picked up some additional scratches on the move up and then down those concrete steps, and after jostling around in a moving van, the table and I arrived in Jacksonville. Now with nails sticking out from one corner, a deep gash along the front, and a discolored blur across the top where I used the wrong cleaning solution, the table has continued its peaceful existence in my living room for almost five years now. In fact, it’s seen “my living room” become “our living room” as Jessi and I became a family, and most of my writing over the past few years has taken place on its surface.

In spite of how much we love the table and the memories it carries, Jessi and I recently made the tough decision to buy something smaller and lighter to better fit our needs. The exposed nails and scratches are beyond our ability to fix, but Habitat Restore could do a lot with a table like this, and in their hands, it will find a new home and help a good cause. It’s been weirdly emotional seeing the table go, and I’ve found myself reminiscing over these past few weeks:

A decade ago, a dear friend gave me a table. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was exactly what I needed. It’s been there for every party, for every late night takeout meal, for every project, but at the end of the day, it’s still stuff. Though the table may be leaving, the memories will always be here.