Writers 
The Table
In the quiet corner of the room,
A wooden table patiently waits,
Carrying the weight of ordinary days,
And memories too precious to name.
Morning sunlight touches its surface,
While cups of tea sit quietly,
And sleepy hands reach across,
Searching for bread and conversation.
At noon, it welcomes hungry hearts,
Holding plates filled with laughter,
Rice, soup, fruits, and stories,
Shared between family and friends.
At night, the table becomes a gathering place,
Where voices rise and fall,
Where someone tells an old story,
And everyone laughs again.
Sometimes, homework covers its surface,
Books open like little worlds,
Pens move across waiting pages,
And dreams quietly begin.
Sometimes, tears fall upon it,
When life becomes difficult,
And someone needs a place
To rest their tired hands.
The table has witnessed celebrations,
Birthdays filled with candles,
Christmas meals and wedding conversations,
And simple evenings that became unforgettable.
It has heard whispered secrets,
Arguments that later became apologies,
Prayers spoken before every meal,
And promises made with hopeful hearts.
Though it never speaks,
The table remembers everything,
Every plate, every hand, every smile,
Every goodbye and every return.
It is more than wood and legs,
More than something placed in a room.
It is where people come together,
Where strangers become family,
Where stories are created,
And memories find a home.
The table simply stands,
Quietly holding us together.
