Wooden Scars

Lately, I find myself in one of those moods when anything may turn into a lovely art-piece. I’ve learned to look at the positive of not-so-positive moments, turning them into poetry or, in my head, a symphony.

I’ve learned to appreciate the smallest things. The other day, as I was cleaning, a scratch on the console table made me stop and think about what I was seeing. It was a thought of appreciation. I ran my fingers through the small crater and followed its shape. Beautiful, I thought, as I wiped away the dust.

Maybe it isn’t really beautiful and I’m being overly sentimental and dramatic (because I just moved and it brought back memories), or maybe there really is something heart-warming about the old furniture that have spent so many birthdays with us.

Things, just like someones, also have a lifespan. Our scars — physical or emotional — remind us of the pain we’ve endured; scratches on furniture are also scars, wooden scars, and they remind us of paths we’ve traveled and steps we’ve given, sometimes literally. How I banged my toe on the claws-like feet of the same table, for example. Or how loose the screws on the coffee table are from moving it so many times from place to place. They’re memories worth keeping.

The old me would have wanted that table out, in the garbage, ready for a brand new piece because that’s what most people do. But today, I think I want it in. I think, from now on, it is not old until it’s old. Like, completely useless.

I never thought I’d look at a scratch on a piece of furniture as something precious, but time and life change us. These simple little things, which I never before cared for, for some reason now mean everything.

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