As a table, life can be quite dull. You cannot move, with four wooden legs planted on the ground at all times, you cannot speak, as you do not have a mouth, and you cannot feel, because you are made of wood. But there is one thing you know how to do. Although, this perhaps does not apply to everyone. I am probably the only table who has this ability. I can listen. Dinnertime is always the best time of day because everyone is here. They sit around me with their plates on me. And they speak. In return, I listen.

Usually, they talk about their day. What happened at school. A play they got into. A test they got a high score on. But sometimes, the topics are not as bright. On some days there is yelling, I presume from the mother to her children. And sometimes there is even crying. Quiet, muffled by hands pressed tightly on the face. It is during those times that I really wish I could move. I wish I could become a person like they all are. Because that way, I could comfort the crier.

Most times, I feel like this special ability to hear is a blessing. It makes my life a little less tedious. But there are also moments where it feels like a curse. Most likely because I feel useless. At the end of the day, I am just a piece of conveniently shaped wood. I wasn't even born like this; I was manmade. I feel helpless. If there was ever a fire, I would have been left to burn. There are lots of wooden things that lead better lives. I am particularly envious of books.

Admittedly, they are much less sturdy than I am. I push that fact aside. The thing about books is that they mean something to people. I am sure the people who sit around me each day have a favorite book. Sometimes, albeit rarely, they even talk about it. Books are, I think, the intimate object with the highest value. I could be made of gold, placed in the middle of a gleaming marble dining hall, with diamond chandeliers hanging about me, and a battered book with yellowed pages could still be worth more. Not just in terms of money.

A golden table could be worth thousands. A book could just be worth a few dollars, but it can be priceless. Nobody cares about tables. Many treasure their favorite book. Take the example of the fire again. If you could only save one thing, nobody would choose a table to rescue from the burning house. A book? Much more likely. Books make people laugh. They make them cry. The only time I have made someone cry is when they ran into one of my corners. There is a difference.

Perhaps I spend too much time thinking about things like this. But as a table, what else is there to do besides think? I could dream of being a book, but it will probably never happen. The only choice I have is to do my best as I am. Nobody cares for me and I may not be special, but I try to tell myself that I am not useless. People put plates on me. They use me to write books. They slam their fists and faces on me when they get frustrated. I am useful; everything is. They just may not realize it.