It sat in the middle of the dining room; its shape emulated that of the picture frames. Its condition was mocked by the brand new wooden frames that surrounded precious memories. This old table once was the location where those memories took place: first birthdays, eighteenth birthdays, family get-togethers, late night card games.
Its skin showed the abuse it went through. Prominent scars from steak knives hid underneath the hand-woven place mats; the ugliness was meticulously covered with something more beautiful.
Over time, it became neglected more and more. The celebrations were replaced with two-word conversations and insulting comments that were mumbled after the final word was said. Stacks of unread mail found a home where the multicolored dinner plates sat. Remnants of one-sided conversations still floated around the table, hoping to find an attentive ear–or any ear. Its legs were wobbly; the weight of negligence almost took it down.
This table now sits on the curb, free to anyone willing to haul it away.