Home

Winter morning light filters through lace curtains, Reaches down, spills onto the corner kitchen sink, Through east and south facing windows. The glass jar, the scrub brush and pad in plastic butter dish, A down-turned, empty yogurt container, The pink plastic rinse pan Keep company around the sink's edges. The dried-out, yellow dishrag Straddles the stained white porcelain wall between Its twin chambers. Home. The three-track cribbage board, Deck of blue and white checkered "Boardwalk Casino" cards, Awaiting friendly competitors, The gilded "Fiftieth" anniversary photo frame. Adorned with golden bow, glass-winged butterfly, Displayed proudly on the fireplace mantel. The couple with their Papal Blessing, Sharing in the holding. Home. Morning light streams through Aged lace curtains, into the living room, Over the fireplace, bricks set years ago, Solid as the blessed couple. Solid as the Home. She struggles with the details of conversation, And asks, as she does each time, "Arrr you mare-eed?" Trilling the r's, after greeting me With her Mother's heart, "My Myzeleh Surptizeleh" In her heavily accented German voice. "Howv many cheel-drrren you havf?" Home. The dated, yet functional, lime-colored shag carpet, Symbolic of their stoic, conservative, old European ways; The lace doily on the end table, photos of a grandchild, A son, a daughter; and one of them, too. Home. The pink plastic Rosary ever present On the coffee table in front of the well-worn sofa. Her days spent there, Sometimes sitting, sometimes lying. The beads close at hand, atop a book of Prayers. Crocheted adornments on the walls, A wooden decorator spoon, A picture framed pair of swans, With them all those years. Home.