Eternal Seeds

The table lies abandoned and neglected suffocating fresh blades of grass.

The blistering sun's arms chip away at the decaying paint. The only

attention it receives is from a colony of black ants which infest the

cracks and crevices. This splintered wooden table once had a life, when

it provided rest under the shadow of an umbrella made of orange tree

leaves, where grapefruit pits replaced ants and banana peels adorned the

surface like a table cloth.

We spent countless summer days sitting on this wooden table,

seats reserved for both brothers, grandpa and me. These were never

permanent, and needed periodic rotation in fear that my grandpa would

break through the center and fold us up inside. The table provided a view

of the entire backyard, beginning with the half-empty pool, to the

half-flooded surrounding concrete. From this look-out point my younger

brother surveyed his sprouting tomato plant and I could supervise my

cardboard lizard motel, which provided shelter for lost reptiles.

Beyond its significance as a surveillance tower and snack rest,

the table possessed industrial value, as the location for our kite

production line. All four of us took part in this activity each with a

designated chore. Age established the seating order, and each position

required the completion of a different task. Since age best indicated

ability, my younger brother gathered supplies, and broke a fresh piece of

wood from the volunteering orange tree, displaying its branches daily.

My other brother and I, equal in age, remained equal in responsibility.

We held together the branches in a diagonal shape, while my grandpa, far

superior in years, secured the pieces with yarn in the most aerodynamic

way possible.

Our table production line continued until the surface became dull

from its frequent use, and the legs splintered from the weight imposed on

its aged back. When the sight of the dilapidated table became too

offensive for my parents to support, it was demoted from the center of

the backyard, to a hidden corner cluttered by outgrown infant chairs and

a rusted swing set. This relocation symbolized our passing of age, and

was finalized by its replacement with a new wooden table.

The orange tree umbrella has since folded up and the kite stolen by the

jealous wind, yet memories of the table are as fresh as the seeds

eternally trapped beneath the wooden panels. Seeds, that will eventually

sprout into new memories, a living remembrance of the table, even after

its death.