If Tables Could Talk

If Tables Could Talk Here I sit—dusty, old, and forgotten. As the days drag on, the sun continues to rise and set. Still, no one bothers to turn on the light that hangs above me. I have fallen into disuse— standing on my hardwood legs, unaccompanied in the dinette. I am a solitary shadow of the past, abandoned, with four maple chairs, empty and milk-stained as my only company. What happened to the family I used to spend game nights with? I know some of them have grown up and moved on, but I’ve been passed down through the generations, and they’ve all left me here to wallow in my own denial. I can’t bear the thought of never again hearing the smack of cards on my formica top, or the roll of dice as they’re cast from a player’s hand. After all the memories we’ve shared, I often dwell upon the exciting times that arose. Only now do I appreciate how they came back to me, and now I am compelled to be useful again. I want to be surrounded by light and laughter once more. Without the merriment, I am miserable— a dark surface, collecting dust along with discarded board games, worn-out dice, and tattered decks of cards. I ask Precious as she passes by, “Where is our family?” Purring, she shrugs, winks, and rubs against one of my tired legs. So I will stand here, waiting for them (as long as it takes) because I am theirs, and they are mine.