My Nana's dining room table is made of dark wood,
There is never enough space for the whole family to fit,
Yet somehow it feels like we magically could,
Because at that table is where we always sit.
The table witnesses games of uno played and arguments that unfold,
The Christmas dinners nestle warmly against it's oak,
It holds cups of coffee and tea that have long gone cold,
As we sit together hanging onto the words that have been spoken.
But the chairs were lonely and the table untouched,
When no grandchildren showed for Sunday lunch,
As months stretched out and out and out,
The table touched only by the sad layer of dust.
Then one day when the troops burst through the door,
The table welcomed them with open arms,
As they dragged out the chairs and sat on the floor,
The sound of chatter echoed like it had never been gone.
And it was at that moment,
When my Nana smiled,
That I realised something golden,
Had clicked in my mind...
My Nana's dining room table is not made of dark wood,
Because lately I have learned my Nana's dining room table is made of love.
Why I'll never let my Nana sell her dining room table - AA.