March Slice of Life Story Challenge
hosted at the Two Writing Teachers
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I remember when they brought me home. A new place in a new home. I was the one they handpicked from the hundreds on display in the store. It was my sturdy legs and rough yet homey planks that drew them to me.
In this new place I took center stage. Placed so all could see, and feel my well-made existence. I was coddled and covered lest there be a mishap. I held steady for whatever they brought my way.
I know their secrets and have held their treasures.
As time wore on I was coddled less and used more. I was happy to oblige. It was then that I was most happy; when all gathered near and everyone wanted next to me. I have held and gathered the oldest to the youngest and stood stable for them all.
I've hosted birthday parties, family gatherings, baby and wedding showers, and dinners too numerous to name. Babies bottoms have sat upon me, and the older ones have used me to pull them up.
I have heard the laughter and felt the sting from a slap of a hand when a hand dealt was not to their liking.
I’ve held their books, pencils, and pens. Helped all of them through homework and lessons, and most through college. I’ve been here for weddings, beginnings, holidays, meetings, crafts, girlfriend parties, funerals, and sad endings.
I’ve held fast for friends who have laughed until the wee hours, and stood unwavering when hot or cold beverages have hastily sloshed upon my surface. I hold the scars of a grandpa’s tea glass, and the etching of a scratch from a broken glass.
I have rolled dough, held bread to rise, mended toys, stood firm for piles of laundry and mountains of dishes. I have been stood on, moved around, colored on, and built on.
I have been washed and waxed, shined and oiled.
I’m the first stop most mornings for a rest and to watch the sunrise, and the last place they gathered at the end of their busy days.
I am the kitchen table and I have seen this family come and go, love and grow. I hold their secrets and their scars from birth to death. I know their stories, and can tell a few too. I am the center of their kitchen and center of their family.
Today I stand quiet and alone, dusted more than used. I miss the days of dinners and homework, and discussions of their days and dreams for the future.
And so I sit in the center of the room waiting patiently for them to return knowing that when they do I will be here ready once again.