Warmth

sweet smells of morning
rise, up the living room stairs.
father’s laughter
booming below,
among the pitter-patter of
brother’s socks; mother’s slippers.

i skim down stairs:
into the sun’s eyes.
the windowpane reflects.

the kitchen table:
stained with memory,
resting on the floors
that raised me.

across the room:
the same couch
that soaked amateur tears
and eased restless teenage minds.

behind bedroom doors:
my mother’s sewing machine,
that stitched my torn ideas of love
and made pillowcases of forgiveness;
my father’s wallet,
stashing photos
of memories, sunny days.

the hall closet:
containing dolls with knotted hair,
and building blocks
the size of my brother’s dreams.

this is what it feels like:
to be in love.
with a place.
a time.
an idea.

 

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