Remembering the good times in our lives. I miss them. |
Time stands still when I remember Those names and places from long ago. Snippets of sound and memories, Scents that stir the cortex and warm the heart. Am I growing old that I live in the past Where memories hold more for me? Where the men were handsome And the babies all sweet? The sound of laughter or argument Dredged up by a turn of phrase or song Bring back that time when Around a table full of friends and relatives Each talked louder than the other Trying to be heard over the din And bringing a satisfied smile to My mother’s face. I understand now Why she cooked those meals And set a plate for more than expected. She knew they would come, Pulled by the need to connect; To feel at home again with memories. We were children once At that same table. Milk spilled, bread torn apart Throwing crumbs everywhere. Salad was served last. Garlic filled the air, And the orange red of tomatoes Splattered the white stove. Everyone wanted to dip the bread Or stir the sauce. Releasing the aroma And bringing comfort. Momma would yell “Get away from the stove!” But no one listened She didn’t mean it. Once long ago, She bragged of her son Stirring the pot and eating all the meatballs. I understand her smile, Her nodding as she told the tales. She is gone now As have so many Cousins, Aunts and Uncles.. Moved away from the old homes To where there is more room to Barbeque. I fill the void with new neighbors Introducing them to the old ways Telling them to let the children play That the table is set, and the game is on The men congregate around the wide screen, The women at the kitchen table. Each gossip in their own ways. Men talk of sports and ignore work While women talk of work and ignore the game. Neither realize it is one and the same. History is how we remember the past The stories we tell our children Become the fabric of their lives. Our getting by becomes their tradition And helps to build future memories For the circle to continue. I rock in my chair And look out the window Hearing the door close And the tread on the stairs Smelling momma’s food All those memories The view out the window Is not what’s there.. |