mine

The brown cardboard box lay on the floor of our kitchen in our small home.  We ripped into it together.  My almost 8 year old, was a charismatic toddler at the time and she leaned right in on her Daddy and helped it come to life.

We welcomed it.

The top was smooth as silk, shined beautifully when the Sun splashed through the window on it.  Not a scratch in sight to ruin this perfect new piece.

Frequented by friends and family, story after story was shared with this new piece.  We passed paper, plastic and the finest glass over it.  We leaned on it, stubbed our toes on it, moved it and cleaned it.

We took it apart and brought it with us when life took us to new destinations.  It was quiet, never complained, and was always there when we needed it.

It is a workbench, a display, a step stool and an artists foundation.  We have prayed at it, fueled out bodies at it, cried at it and painted on it.

It has witnessed friendships bloom as women and men alike have sat and bonded over coffee, shared memories and their deepest secrets over wine.

It has stood strong as my children learned to scribble, then draw, learned to print, then write cursive.

It has felt warmth from the freshly dried laundry.

It has been stood on by women who fear they heard or saw a mouse in their home.

It has absorbed our love.

It has been written on, drummed on with pencils, scratch at with a knife, painted on, felt the pitter patters of a tiny toddlers footprints, wobbled, cracked, been thrown up on, been cold from spilled milk and water.

Ace, King, Queen, Jack glide swiftly.

It has been smacked, hard.

It has endured us.  We are loud, we live, we love.

I love my table.  I will never get rid of our masterpiece. I will never sand the top down to restore it's once smooth nature.  I will sit at it with a warm heart as I grow old.  I will rub my hands over it to feel it's flaws, and admire it's sturdy construction.  Our table is our life. We are the table.