Withered Pages of My Childhood

I open the book of time once more and again, where pages are engraved in my mind; the worn old pages- all tattered and yellow, oh, here is the house of my childhood; and my memories come twirling . . . The smell of old wood and the stained glass, the french doors and the long curved staircase; my little room overlooking the garden, and the big claw foot bathtub- a lake to a child; the kitchen old and cozy with wonderful smells, mom humming as she cooks . . . A little girl (me) playing quietly on the front porch, with long hair in tangles and rosy cheeks; and grandma rocking and rocking and knitting, and I hear dad busy in his workshop; my baby brother in his stroller sleeping, oh, the happiness . . . A child's table set for tea and dolls sitting pretty, a real teapot and some china cups (a gift from grandma); my kitty cat Snowball asleep on one chair . . . I walk up the shady street of my memory, up that big hill where I rode my bike; to the end of our quiet dappled street, and into a park lush green and full of songs; oh yes, the water lilies float on the pond, and white swans and ducks drift . . . Further down the street and up a hill, is an old church with big ornate doors; I enter the gloom in my mind remembering, pungent the smell of candles flickering; and the memories flood back . . . The worn withered pages of my childhood, all the pages tattered and yellowed with time; then slowly- I close tight this book of time, until the next time . . . _______________________ July 7, 2019 Poetry/Verse/Withered Pages of My Childhood Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1164-783-02 All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym. Written for the contest, Childhood Memories sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke First Place