The table lies abandoned and neglected suffocating fresh blades of grass. The blistering sun’s arms chip away at the decaying paint. The onlyattention it receives is from a colony of black ants which infest thecracks and crevices. This splintered wooden table once had a life, whenit provided rest under the shadow of an umbrella made of orange treeleaves, where grapefruit pits replaced ants and banana peels adorned thesurface like a table cloth.
We spent countless summer days sitting on this wooden table,seats reserved for both brothers, grandpa and me. These were neverpermanent, and needed periodic rotation in fear that my grandpa wouldbreak through the center and fold us up inside. The table provided a viewof the entire backyard, beginning with the half-empty pool, to thehalf-flooded surrounding concrete. From this look-out point my youngerbrother surveyed his sprouting tomato plant and I could supervise mycardboard lizard motel, which provided shelter for lost reptiles.
Beyond its significance as a surveillance tower and snack rest,the table possessed industrial value, as the location for our kiteproduction line. All four of us took part in this activity each with adesignated chore. Age established the seating order, and each positionrequired the completion of a different task. Since age best indicatedability, my younger brother gathered supplies, and broke a fresh piece ofwood from the volunteering orange tree, displaying its branches daily.
My other brother and I, equal in age, remained equal in responsibility. We held together the branches in a diagonal shape, while my grandpa, farsuperior in years, secured the pieces with yarn in the most aerodynamicway possible. Our table production line continued until the surface became dullfrom its frequent use, and the legs splintered from the weight imposed onits aged back. When the sight of the dilapidated table became toooffensive for my parents to support, it was demoted from the center ofthe backyard, to a hidden corner cluttered by outgrown infant chairs anda rusted swing set. This relocation symbolized our passing of age, andwas finalized by its replacement with a new wooden table. The orange tree umbrella has since folded up and the kite stolen by thejealous wind, yet memories of the table are as fresh as the seedseternally trapped beneath the wooden panels.
Seeds, that will eventuallysprout into new memories, a living remembrance of the table, even afterits death.
