This table is as much me as I am.

The wood is real-- tacky and solid under my clenching grip. I think I am two today. Maybe younger, it's hard to tell. Mom and dasd call me their baby. Brothers call me little miss. I think I must be in the middle of that age somewhere.

But this table, this table is sure. It's oak, and glossy. My younger-older brother is always fisting at it, tracking the indents with his fingertips. My oldest-older brother doesnt care for it, but I don't know why. I can see in the wood-- right here, you see-- where his fingerprints are. Mom cares for the mess- but my dad tells her were only young once, and we can buy new furniture.

I agree, as I move my hands along the wooden lip for a better grip. My favourite song is playing, and my mom is smiling at me so proudly. I'm not doing anything, really, I'm just bouncing up and down. Brothers call it dancing, and I think I like it even if I don't know what that is.

But this table-- it tells me what to do. It tells me how when my fingerprints match my brothers' that I am moving right. It tells me when I make bigger stains then they could that I'll be an artist.

This table-- I have built cities with play dough, and made messes with my food from bright plastic plates. I have taken adult scissors to my hair and botched it, and grabbed my dog's toy from beneath when she couldn't reach it. This table shares my laughter, tears, firsts and lasts.

This table is as much me as I am.