Death of a Table

She wipes the dust off the table.
It falls,
like dingy snowflakes,
over the edge and onto the scuffed wood floor.
Her hip bumps the table as she turns
and the whole structure quivers;
the legs are uneven and weakened with age.
She remembers the table from her childhood.
The mahogany shined like a newly minted coin
back then, when it sat in the middle of her grandmother's kitchen.
Now the finish is chipped in the corner
and the once rich color is faded and dull.
She was alive back then
when the table sat in the middle of her grandmother's kitchen.
Now the life is slowly passing out of her
as disease eats away at her bones.
She wipes the dust off the table:
This is dying.