By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of the earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At the table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children.
They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sign with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

My grandmother's kitchen table has been in the family for longer than anybody remembers now. Four generations have eaten at it. Every summer, we sat and peeled bushels of peaches on it, and sugared and canned them. The same for tomatoes, and the beans and corn and peppers that became chowchow. We pressed grapes on it for juice, and crabapples for jelly. We dripped paraffin on it. We chopped. We shredded. I learned how to slice cabbage on a mandolin at it. We drank tea, coffee, beer, water, generic soda from plastic glasses. From glasses so old the glass was wavy.

When I was young, I climbed up on it one August afternoon and danced a rain dance. When she was old, my grandmother read and read the newspaper on it, staining it black with ink while cancer stained her black on the inside. My grandfather and I sit at it now when I visit. He chops carrots for stir fry. He works the crossword.

I sit and watch the onions and mushrooms sizzle, the pork chops being pounded flat before stuffing. The mallet descending upon the meat. The smell of minced garlic. I lay my cheek against the cool, wiped-clean surface and contemplate the quick rhythm of kitchen words: knife-block. Crock-pot. Flame. Sear.

The world begins and ends at the table, in the kitchen. And maybe love begins there, too.