1941
2010
I touch things
like the child I was,
all the familiar things
that kept me safe.
Depression salvage -
handled, used, re-used,
stained, rusted -
tended and brought to the present.
Sacks of memories -
fragmented histories
stacked neatly in liquor boxes -
The apron she was wearing
when she caught me at the bottom
of the basement stairs -
The crystal stemware
that sang with
moistened fingers -
The meaning of things
altered
like her mind.
Walls hold the plot
of our lives;
stand blameless
like change.
I sweep the floor
to clear the effort it took
to place her, replace this -
With a gentler fate.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.
