Childhood Table

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.

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