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