A piece of furniture

It is a table
with me for several

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

© supratik 2023
Views: 235
critique and comments welcome.
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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,


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.

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