I only see light once a year, twice if I'm lucky. Even when I do, I get burnt and ripped by everyone at the table. Usually, they drop food on me. Once someone dropped a candle onto me, but it's okay. I'm flame retardant. I don't think they know I'm there, though the mother makes a point of washing me afterwards. I like her. She seems to care about me, though she doesn't do much in the way to prevent stains and burns. She just yells at the others after they do hurt me. "Don't spill stuff on that! It was expensive!" she'll yell, and the offender - usually the son or the father - quietly apologizes. I'm not sure how much I like being referred to as 'it' or 'that', but I don't know what else they'd call me. I don't even know my name. From what the mother says, I'm The Nice Tablecloth. Maybe that's why I'm always stuck in that cupboard. I shouldn't feel so sorry for myself; Sponge and Washcloth have it much worse. We have to get a new Sponge every once in a while because the mother rubs them all over the place. I don't think I like her so much now.