The Table

The formica table—

childhood relic,

faded flowers barely visible

through the wear.

The laminate peeling back,

showing plywood

soft from decades of fingers

doing what I was doing.

My aunt said: "I keep meaning to fix it."

But the table still held.

Still level. Still honest.

I pressed my fingernail into the edge.

A flake came away.

The plywood underneath

was velvet from time,

compressed from years

of water, heat, use.

And I understood why she kept it—

not for beauty,

not for function,

but for truth.

Because the table didn't hide.

It showed exactly what it was:

a thing that had lasted

by visibly,

slowly,

coming apart.

Still holding.

Still failing.

Still honest in the way

only broken things can be.