In my first memory I’m three, almost four,
And my small hands rest on the table.
I don’t know my hands are small then,
Only that the table is cold.
I must not be alone, in this first memory,
But I don’t remember who is with me,
Probably my mother. I place my hands on
The cold tile table, and feel safe.
The table was always on the patio,
And as I got older, so did the table.
Every time I looked at it, I knew
Home was there waiting for me.
A tile top table, with an elongated
Octagonal form, painted with colorful
Floral designs. Waiting at home,
Just for me.
One day I left, and when I got back
The table was not there anymore.
It is hiding now where
Childhood memories go.