Praise

2010 074 (2)

Inside the sitting room of my memory

play the retired ghosts of past years.

School’s out. The summer heat shimmers

so bright, even coolers and fans cannot

bring down the day’s fever. In the garden

a chameleon changes colors faster than a

thirteen year old changes her mind.

The trees weary of the heat droop

over; dropping gold coins that curl up

when dry, flocking into heaps of fallen pride

waiting to be swept away the next morning.

In the sitting room my father irons a week’s

worth of his white collar job into perfectly

creased shirts and pants. I lean over into the

floor painting carnivals of landscapes, rich pastels

bleeding into the white marble floor.

Inside the kitchen my mother tosses red chilies

into pots of simmering curry hot as day. And my sister

straightens her curls with dreamy fingers, musing up her

life in teenage novels.

How sad that we should never offer praise to the simpler moments

of life, at least not until decades later when the sitting room with its

resident memories has gone up in gold and silver smoke

billowing into the cool, black night…

 Inspired by DailyPost

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11 thoughts on “Praise

  1. Such evocative images in the poem – the heat of mother throwing red chillies into the curry “hot as day”, father ironing “a week’s worth of his white collar job”, heat and hot colours colliding with the “white marble floor”. The sharp seam of times past.

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