I sit on the wooden table,
Very near to the silver pan.
My binding is quite stable,
and usually I look at the room if I can.
Thereâ€™s four little chairs,
All in a neat line.
Thereâ€™s a sofa and stairs,
That stand up, looking very fine.
Every night before the children go to bed,
With their teddy bear and dollâ€“
I am picked up, and usually read.
The story is finished, and they head to their rooms down the hall.
After many years of being in this house,
I see and hear a lot.
Iâ€™ve seen many arguments coming out of angry mouths.
And many lessons being taught.
But they forgive each other every night
and give one another a kiss.
Then they read my stories before they douse the light,
and Iâ€™m left with a feeling of bliss.
I pick only the best stories for the three little girls.
There is so much to choose in my content.
Some about mermaids with pearls,
or some about parties were princesses went.
This morning I watch the family go out the door.
I watch the youngest slip on her coat,
And slam her boots on the floor.
For any visitors, their mother leaves a â€œgone outâ€ note.
Someday when my binding is no longer stable,
And the pan I sit by is rusty,
The family will take me off of the wooden table,
Worn out, and dusty.
The memories shall always remain,
Every little detail.
Through happiness and pain,
My tales will stay the same.