Time, a precious thing. Even the sharpest memories
seem to fade on a table bare as pressed flowers
and wilted words become poetry.
I still remember my sister pressing her ear against the wall
to hear the chatter on the other side, with papa always
dozing off in his plushy brown recliner and mama’s footsteps
in the hallway warning us
to pull the covers tighter
and pretend to be asleep.
I still can feel the texture of rustic green and white checkered gingham,
a stitched apron sporadically stained merlot
with blanched tomatoes and succulent plum sauce,
and you couldn’t help but notice
the matching tablecloth and curtains
that dressed the pantry kitchen like a home sweet home.