Memory Keeper

When moving, the hardest goodbye is to the floor dents beneath my desk—four grooves where legs sank into wood like roots into soil.

Wood remembers everything: the darkened patch near the dining table, stained by years of holiday soup steam; shallow scratches in the living room from Christmas tree hauling; the worn spot by the bedroom door, smoothed by daily footsteps.

The new owner asks about refinishing. I decline. These marks are life’s diary—erasing them would blur our story. Wood’s beauty lies not in flawlessness, but in faithfully holding time.