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Within seconds, they began throwing chairs and furniture out the window. A box of china, hastily cushioned with an afghan was tossed out. Finally they came to me. With a heave, they tipped me over the windowsill, and my sheer weight dropped me straight down. The impact rattled my wheels and burst my drawers outward, and my belt snapped. That was how I got my second crack.
The furniture was left on the lawn for the night. I was one of the fortunate—not all of the furniture escaped the blaze. But fire was not the last enemy. In the darkness, a growling pickup truck drove past and stopped. Their headlights were off. Then, a group of shadowy figures jumped out, and ran to the lawn. They began to pick up the salvaged furniture and loaded it into the trunk. They began to steal from the victims of a fire. Victims, as it happened, that they knew. I wanted to scream “Traitors and thieves!” at them, as they betrayed people that they’d known. I was lucky to be left behind, due to my heaviness. They drove away with their loot, and I wondered, would the coffee table sit beneath different feet? Would the loveseat sit in someone else’s sitting room? Would they sell the white dresser with the peeling paint? I lost some of my friends to poverty, some more to fire, and the rest to theft.
The next day, my family returned to the pillaged area. I alone remained, on my back, surrounded by shattered porcelain. I was brought to a new house, where I resided for many years in perfect peace. The young woman, who was not so very young anymore, would not be parted from me, and was a source of awe in her family.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and my owner was no exception. She died in the year 1983, after 85 years of life, and I became forgotten. Yet despite that, I would never forget. I would never forget how she placed old keys in my drawers, and spare buttons that she never used, looped with the remnants of threads. I would live on, with memory and shadows as my only consolation. In sadness, then, I was passed along to her niece, and lived in a dark attic for many years.
Finally I was rediscovered by a young girl with a penchant for antiques, and was moved to a new home. Now, I’m used mainly as a table. I miss being useful. I miss being relied upon.
I don’t expect my new owners to use me every day, or even to use me at all. But in