Remembrances: the footstools

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you.

Green, orange, black,

of childhood tumblings

and vague happiness;

its exactness, I cannot recall.

A wide open pond; the biggest I'd known,

yet small enough for our two pairs of eyes

fishing poles

turtles

later, fried shrimp

the taste, remembered on my tongue.

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you;

worn places, from years of movement.

Lean back, prop your feet,

feel the brandy go down.

Though I did not see; yet, I know.

So little did you allow,

yet these feet-proppers became

chairs for the wee ones

until one day, I'm sure,

we became outgrown and

recognized your raised voice, come down hard.

Stacked in the corner

of our home now -

what most do they remind me of?

Family and fireplaces and

dogs running 'round

and the corner of old,

where eventually they retired.

Another chance, I will give them

to be used and loved

as before they became old news.

Stacked in the corner,

remembrances of you,

and a chance to begin again.

{Written October 22, 2011}