misskristin

I was sitting there tracing my fingers along the grain of a bar top at a pub that was 60 years old. It was chipped and weathered and most of the lacquer had worn off. Though the wood was mostly bare it felt as though it had a slick finish on it anyways. I began to think about all the things this bar top has seen, the things that the exposed wood has absorbed, tears, the spilled stout when the hockey team on the TV or radio scored, the blood shed of a fight. Countless people drowning their sorrows and celebrating their joys at this bar. Broken marriages, new fathers celebrating the birth of their babies and then here I am, feeling all these other peoples emotions and memories in what is merely a battered plank of oak. What I wouldn't give to know what this bar top knows, what a lucky tree to be allowed to not only see all this, but experience it and wear the scars of it.