Seventh period. Portable eight. The far-right table. The light of my life.

What may seem trivial to outsiders means everything to me. Every day I wake and long to be sitting at my table in portable eight. Lest I be having a horrid day, or the most wondrous, she shall always be the highlight. 

In sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, in rain and in sun, I will trudge across the parking lot to see my love.

I never knew a being as simple as me could love a table as flawless as her. When my brain is drained and my heart is heavy, I can always count on my lovely table in portable eight to bring my spirits out of the deepest part of my soul and into the grain of wood I could stare at for hours.

Instead of desecrating my schoolwork with artwork depicting my boredom, my love keeps me entertained with her detachable cup holders that I twirl to spin away my woes. 

Instead of cold, lonely rows of desk prisons, my table in portable eight creates a kinship for me and my fellow peers, a community provided for and cultivated by my love. 

When I leave for the day, eventually for life, I will miss her exceedingly and dream of the wondrous ninety minutes she graced my life.

If my table in portable eight can teach me anything, it’s that joy can be found in any mundane object to transform the way you see and experience love, something that shouldn’t be isolated to the best of the best, but extended to anything that brings you a minuscule amount of joy.