Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 1 view

This table has held more than food — it held the silence after bad news came, the homework tears, the birthday cake, the mood of every ordinary night with no name. Four legs uneven on the kitchen floor, one propped for years with a folded envelope. We never fixed it. Somehow that felt like more than furniture — a kind of family hope that things don't need to sit up perfectly straight to hold whatever's placed upon them still. The table's older now, and so am I, and late some nights I sit here just to feel that will to hold, however tilted, everyone who came — this wood remembers every single name.