I gaze out of the window
As the sun comes up over the hillside,
And wondered what was I to do?
My hand rests lightly on the table
That was my grandmother’s.
I know she meant for it to be mine,
But my sister and a brother,
And two cousins
Claim that she had promised it to them.
It is, after all,
Only a table.
It cannot replace memories
Of which there are many.
I had a special relationship
With my grandmother
And now that she is gone
There is only this table,
And me.
There may be other tables
But there can only be one
With one’s grandmother.
And it is mine.

–Sandra Lee Smith


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