I sat at a picnic table weathered by years of use, wondering who had sat where I now sat and what stories they had shared. Who were the first people to gather here? Whose initials were carved into the wood, and who were the lovers behind the crudely carved hearts? This table should be called a "memory table," speaking through the pocket knives of first loves and promises of a shared future. I wondered how many love-struck kids had come and gone over the years and whether they still visited this table to relive memories held dear.
If the table could talk, how many promises would it recount? How many quarrels were had, and how many “I’m sorrys” were spoken? This old table, sitting alone among the park's trees, was like a beacon calling out, “Don’t leave yet; sit and visit for a while. Share your stories of love and leave your mark, just as dozens before you have done.”
As the years have passed, too many to count, I find myself sitting at that old table, reminiscing about my first love and the heart I carved for us. Discovering it was like finding buried treasure as I ran my hand over the symbol of our love. We didn’t have a future together, but our lives were complete, and the heart carved into that old table will always remain a memory for anyone to see.
Mike, 2025
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