The Old Oak Table

There, in the kitchen of this modest dwelling, A cheerful room, in spite of its lack of grandness Home to the little family Who gathered together each evening For string beans and mashed potatoes, Eating with relish at the rectangle of oak They recounted a day filled with stories Of the playground mishap, Of the clearance sale at the hardware store, Significant things or things without matter The scene reconstructed, each night of the week With new accounts of a busy day A ritual never lacking in importance. This coming together at the end of the day, While chomping away on an unidentifiable casserole, Filling the belly, as well as the soul, Consuming tidbits of noodles, and wisdom and the love of being together. Until, one day it was time to retire The humble piece of oak with the four wobbly legs For something more presentable. Something more impressive, That would serve the expanse of a family Which had grown in numbers throughout the years. How could anyone have known the significance Of that aging old table with its warp in the middle? The sag she had tried to hide with a checkered cloth. Those who sat there day after day, hardly aware of it's meaning. This old oak piece, having withstood crayon marks, spilled milk, Even small holes from the time when father, while repairing a picture frame, Had accidently hammered nails all the way through and into it's top. Who knew that a weathered old piece of wood would be witness To such love and importance And in itself, was more worthy than Anything this family could have ever imagined?