Oh, the tales I could tell you, if only I could talk.
We’ll skip the beginning- that’s boring. How I grew and was shaped by the years, how I spent years waiting for the right person – none of that is interesting.
But after that; after I was brought into a house that I could call home, that’s where it gets interesting.
There were romantic dinners; some more successful than others. Candlelight and tablecloths, fine food and wine. I got more than a little bit spilled down me, but I didn’t mind.
Then there was the sex. Oh yes, no joke. But I don’t want my story X rated, so I’ll just leave that there, and your imagination can do the rest.
Eventually, the house became a family home, and the tablecloths were put away, only to come out for Easter and Christmas, and the candles were a thing of the past. Now it was kid’s meals. Cereal and milk in the morning, jam sandwiches, spaghetti hoops on toast, and the occasional sticky dessert. And by heck, do kids make a mess when they eat!
They seemed to bring home endless amounts of homework; maths problems, scientific experiments, stories for English- and I was always there to lean on.
But the children grew up, as children always do, and eventually moved out. Now there was time for hobbies; she took up quilting, he took up woodwork. Inevitably, there was an accident; on a rainy day, he decided to bring the saw into the kitchen, and that was where it happened.
I was never the same again.
Although they patched me up, the scar was ugly, so I was pushed out of the way; shifted somewhere out of sight. Kept in the dark, and in the cold, I was forgotten.
But I’m still strong. There’s years in me yet, if they remember, so I wait in the garage and dream about tablecloths, kids meals and homework.
Oh, the tales I could tell you, if only I could talk. But then again, who would listen to a talking table?
© Kari Fay