Lumpy Oatmeal makes me Crazy!
I can close my eyes and see it.
The long wooden kitchen table,
scarred from use,
worn from being wiped and cleaned.
The wood has lightened in time,
and the sunlight that streams through the window
makes it appear even lighter
as the grains dance in the beams.
Those beams have names
... Shoodle Doodles ...
some place, some time ago
I would talk to the dust beams
as I sat on the floor.
I was a baby
and the light and dust
may have been magical.
Magic is a large part of my life.
Not the magic of potions and spells
the magic of dreams and imagination.
This is my magic.
This magic now felt within the old table.
The table I see has patterns from being used
scars from scribbles
initials carved on a leg
and it smells like lemons and mineral oil.
If it could speak,
it would tell tales of fears and dreams.
Instead it cradles tears in the seams of wood,
and it keeps secrets safe.
It holds laughter
and listens to words.
Some tables are the glue
that hold the histories of families.
People come and go
but the table can hold safe dreams,
fears, laughter and tears.