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?
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