The Table


Abriana Valdez, Poet

The table is dented, peeled, scratched

Any imperfection you can name, the wooden, dinning room table has it.

It’s seen a lot.

But some may say it hasn’t seen enough.

It’s new but old.


From others view,

the table is a table

Many only stare at the dent on the corner,

the paint peeled from the picking of a nail,

the scratches from her throwing the fork across the table’


They don’t see the memories hidden inside the core of the table.

The memories of stressed days ended with a few laughs

The memories left behind, stories of a joyful day being retold.



they only see a chair being slammed after another argument about:

unwashed dishes

unclean room

a dropped grade

They only see the peeling of the paint

she was chipping it away again,

a distraction from the incessant screaming in her ear.


The table gets cleaned during the day,

after breakfast,

after lunch,

before and after dinner.

All the scrubbing,



or shining could not wipe away the memories.


The good or the bad will never out weigh each other or go away.

In the moment they might feel like never ending agony of pain,

but the happy moments come back and it feels as though you’d never be sad again.

Either way it doesn’t matter because soon the memories will fade

new ones will be made,

but it will continue as an endless cycle

until the table is sold and everyone moves out.

They must cherish all the moments;

soon they will be gone


No matter how much you hate it

no more getting stern talks

no more scolding

no more running off to cry

no more worrying about things that aren’t very substantial

No matter how much you want to keep it

no more pep talks

no more fun talks about silly things

no more relief of seeing mom after long school and work days

no more reminiscing on childhood

the dinner table will be gone

and so will the relationship.