Here is a photo of an everyday banal object, a wooden table.
This table, with all its scratches, discolorations, and flaws, is the table I use when I write everything…my journal entries, my thoughts and dreams and prayers, my poetry, the gift cards I make, the bills I pay, the hand lettering I practice. It’s where my son did his homework every night. It’s where he spilled paint while doing a school project.
This table is filled with marks and scratches, each telling a story. This table is embedded with history. If you cut into the wood, you would find memories so deep it would take your breath away.
This table has quietly served me without recognition for so long…but today I want you to know it has provided so much more than a place for eating meals.
This table holds and supports the essence of my life.
