The Kitchen Table






She sat and looked 

At that old, mahogany table. 

The beautiful, right color, 

Topped by marks of time. 


She traced her fingers 

Over the dents and scratches. 

The perceived flaws,  

Covered by the trappings of a normal life. 


Some came and went;  

Small celebrations of time. 

Some stayed and aged; 

Covering that beautiful table. 


Until the table was overflowing, 

With all the things now hiring the truth. 

That table, with all its flaws, is sturdy. 

With its carvings, it’s unique. 


Every scratch, dent, and stain 

Tells a story of a life lived. 

Life, hiding under everything, 

Etched right into the table.  


Memories of loud laughter, quiet tears, and still moments. 

Memories of shared meals and conversations. 


Late study nights and early pancake breakfasts.  

A perfect roof for forts; 

A blank slate for creativity. 

A full life, lived at that table. 


She sat, and pulled away 

All that covered that strong, solid table. 

Held each item in hand, 

Weighing what honored the story of the table.  

What spoke truth to the life lived there. 


She placed only the meaningful things back, 

And embraced the stories marked into the table. 

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