An Author’s Table

It sat in the corner of the crowed room, boxes piled around it, looking a bit forlorn and neglected. Pale green paint peeling off rough wood, showing its age. My eyes locked on it right away—this table was special. I had to have it.

Most of the furniture, lamps, odds and ends, were to be sold, moved to the new house or donated to charity. I asked about this little table and the owner said, “You can take it,” in a tone that indicated she was glad to get rid of it. I was thrilled. I contemplated painting it, sanding it, making it “better” but the longer it sits here just the way it is, the pale green paint a little sparse on its rough wood planking, I think it’s perfect just the way it is. Bits of darker, forest green cling to its delicate spindle legs and a stenciling of fruit and leaves shows faintly beneath the paint on one of the drop-down leaves.

I imagine it in a cozy old breakfast nook or under the eaves in an old Victorian, perhaps as a writing desk or a little flower table in a bay window. When I look at it, feelings arise in me and I imagine it in my old fashioned house by the water, the one I will have by my 61st year. Perhaps I will sand it a bit and apply a little more paint, but it will be the same color and I will leave the darker green flecks and the faint image of the fruit stenciling. Those are part of its history. Now, it is my special place to sit, to write, to dream.

An Authors Table

carriesuepepper

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