A piece of furniture
It is a table
with me for several
years,
my grandparents
brought it home,
they died long ago,
I learned to read, write,
lean, stand, eat on it,
it had also gone places,
with me,
saw its stiffness, its
strength slowly turning
into softness,
the apron, the legs,
the stretcher,
yet it hadn’t lost
its shine
by being what it is,
I see the wounds
‘I love you’, ‘I hate you’
written on its top with
the compass needle,
I’d marvel at its
outstanding support
when I struggled hard
to write my poems on peace
on it, if I wrote in French,
I’d be obliged to refer
to it as ‘her’,
now I love it blindly
when I’d hear the sound of
my granddaughter writing
a, b, c on her spiral notebook,
or, in time, when she’d wrongly
spell peace as ‘piece’, it surprised
her when I explained
to her the meaning,
she laughed, I heard a
swinging sound,
I knew where it came from
Excelent poem to a well loved table. I have some tables i feel the same about but write less now as can’t see well. But I do like your poem ans glad your daughter writes on it,
Daffni
Thank you. I am glad you liked it. My daughter used to write on it, as a toddler she would often dance on the table, I still remember her reciting many rhymes, a particular one would be, ‘an elephant walks like this and that’, with her enactment she’d learnt from her kindergarten. Yes, many fond memories. Thank you, Daffni once again, wish you a speedy recovery so you could also sit and restart writing your lines.
Supratik xx
There’s something reassuring and loving about furniture that has lived your life with you, and carries its own memories along with your own.
I loved this poem. sue.
Thank you, Sue. I’m glad you liked it. Yes, furniture is endearing, at times existential too.
Supratik xx