Pile Of Mishaps: A Short Story

Pile of Mishaps

The wooden old dining table that stood upon ancient rusted legs in our kitchen contained countless of scratches and stains from previous mishaps. There were numerous of times when I would find myself seated at that table, drained of my happiness feeling nothing but dejected and wretched and yet I would find myself gazing at the numerous scars the table showcased. My fingers would fondly trace every wound, every indention, as I reflected on the ambiguous beauty of the table. It was where my family could gather together and disregard all our problems over the enjoyment of our food, assignments or aimless chatter. However, it seemed that each time we assembled at the table it would gain a new wound and the legs of the table would grow more and more fragile as we struggled to contain all our problems atop of it.

At the age of 12 I learned to mask my problems when I was abruptly woken up from my sleep to the frantic yelling of my mother. I remember her screeching “HELP YOUR FATHER IS DYING!” and my siblings and I dashing to our parents room, quickly discarding the blankets that were draped over our feeble bodies as we raced to the unknown. We hurriedly entered our parents room to find my father slumped over on the floor of the bathroom. After the chaotic confusion and mass questioning, my mother swiftly gathered my father and sped to the hospital. Everything that happened after that was a blur but I remember going to school that day as if nothing had happened (one would think I was an actress the way I composed myself). Nevertheless, I was never provided the opportunity to react to the incident, instead I would find myself at that fragile wooden table lamenting on “what