little wooden table

In that old uneven brick house, that was once my Grannie's, used to sit a little wooden round table. No bigger than a doll's table really. It sat in the dimly lit breezeway between the kitchen and the dining room. Just down two or three stairs.  That was the kids table. Me and my cousins used to break bread there. We'd laugh and play. Talk about kid stuff. Back in those days I didn't like sweet potatoes. I hadn't thought about that table in years.  Oh the stains of that table hold the memories of food and drink, the spirit of community that once brought me joy, now I hold them deep to my heart. My sobs, deep within.  I don't know where that table is now. If it even still exists anywhere but my heart. I'd give anything to sit there one more time and be merry.