This Table

This dear old kitchen table bears the scars of
all our celebrations.
It proudly wears its marks and stains like
an old soldier's decorations.
We take our customary places,
self-appointed, not dictated.
And warmly greet familiar faces
in the circle we've created.
Each time we meet the wrinkles show,
the time is passing ever quicker.
But, to each other we still look the same
across the candle's flicker.
Lay one place fewer at the table,
and shuffle up the empty spaces.
We'll talk and smile as best we're able.
Try not to count the missing faces.
Time is a theif who steals our treasure.
Life never gives, it merely lends.
So laugh and cry in equal measure,
and celebrate that we were friends.
The scrubbed and faded grooves have long absorbed
our foolish indescretions.
It's heard our quarrels, our rapprochement,
our denials and confessions.
It's heard our trials and tribulations,
our triumphs and our glories.
If only it could speak you'd hear it tell
a thousand secret stories.
It's brought old enemies together,
and will do the same for many another.
For when we sit around the table,
we are forced to face each-other.
Lay one place fewer at the table,
and shuffle up the empty spaces.
We'll talk and smile as best we're able.
Try not to count the missing faces.
Time is a theif who steals our treasure.
Life never gives, it merely lends.
So laugh and cry in equal measure,
and celebrate that we were friends.
So laugh and cry in equal measure,
and celebrate that we were friends.