The kitchen table as aged with us, becoming more of a character with age, as perhaps we all do if we are wise enough to mature. It belongs here, restored when necessary, yet always present in our home.
Somewhere beneath the creative outpourings of the children resides the kitchen table, always content to stay quietly beneath, yet at times be revealed upon the random cleanings that come as welcome storms.
The kitchen table cools my palms as the warm brown hues rekindle my soul on this and every day. It is the steady companion to the aroma of freshly baked bread and the birdsong that flutters in from the garden beyond.
If this kitchen table could talk, it could regale our hard times, our loving times, our worst moments and our best. Yet as it still stands strong, we do too, loving each other in every moment regardless of what exists on the surface.
This kitchen table has seen every emotion, from the sweet silent happiness of family times, when the only sound is contented enjoyment, to the rage that bursts out in the hard times. From its rich cream surface the wood beneath peaks through, as if to remind us that we are the same, that in those tough times we can learn how to show our beauty and true strength instead of the anger that damages us all.
Upon this kitchen table, upon the wood that was once a barn in a far away land, are the old nail holes that bring so much character. In my moments of emotional dumbfoundedness, when I realise it will take time for my brain to find the words to adequately express what I feel, I let my fingers trace those ragged holes rendered so beautiful by the deep varnish hue.
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