Sunday nights are a special time around my house back at home in Wheaton, Illinois. They are a time when my family all gets together and has dinner as a group. It is a time when we all get to talk and share our stories of how our weeks went, what is to come in the following week, and other various topics. This whole Sunday night ritual always takes place in our dining room.The dining room is attached to our kitchen; it is a small room, just large enough to fit our large oak dining room table. Around the table sits six large, old, creaky chairs. Week after week, year after year, we are always in the same formation around that table. My father sits at the head of the table, it is a position that illustrates respect and is furthest away from the kitchen, perhaps saying he wants nothing to do with the cooking and cleaning up duties. He is always first to sit down and the last to leave the table, because he enjoys his time with the family so much he wants to make it as long as possible. My mother sits on the opposite end of the table, the closest seat to the kitchen, which makes perfect sense because she is always the last person to be seated and is constantly getting up to get something from the kitchen. On the other side of the table sits my little nine-year old brother, he sits next to my dad because he is always in his shadow, he looks up to him and imitates nearly everything he does. He sits next to the furthest from the kitchen because he is not much of any help with the cooking or serving. Across from my brother sits my sixteen-year old sister and I. We are near to my mother because we help her cook and clear the table.The grand oak table and chairs is what we eat this feast upon. The table is significant in many ways; it has been passed down from generation to generation of women in my mother's family. My mother's great, great grandmother's uncle made it for her and her husband as a wedding gift back in the early 1900...
