Reminiscence
By Amali Wijesena
The timely ticking of a grandfather clock,
mumbled nothings around the table,
sinking into a cozy couch,
a lamp is always lit.
Coffee and love-soaked words to awaken me,
the warm embrace of the morning sun,
the gentle smell of eggs and bacon.
The birds sing just loud enough to hear,
and every once in a while, I'll think I'm back,
but, when I open my eyes, the day is already upon me.
The birds no longer serenade with song,
the light no longer warm.
Now the morning coffee is sipped in solitude,
no more morning chatter,
or deep quiet voices.
The ticking clocks are all gone.
The lamp that hangs in the entryway broken,
deemed too old to be lit.
Summers at grandma's house are no more,
they moved, and now their house is ours,
and her warmth is gone,
it dissipated as boxes were taken from the basement and the walls were cleared.
Her new house has no textured ceilings,
It's too big,
too quiet,
too cold,
too new.
Our house now lacks joy and wonder,
the smell of fresh brewed coffee never quite fills the room,
the table is always covered, but not with cribbage games, long-fought.
Happy squeals of childhood joy now replaced with the quiet of dysfunction.
The yard once a haven of adventure,
now only brings work.
It must be mowed,
weeded,
watered.
The hills that once held snakes, and long days searching for arrowheads,
games, hikes, and wind-blown discovery,
now, they are lonely.
The wind no longer breathes life, but steals your warmth.
You fear the hunter, and now there are always
vehicle tracks and beer bottles on the ground.
I wonder if I just never noticed as a kid,
too busy looking up,
looking for my cousins.
But now the caves don't feel like a secret,
like a place just for us,
for our lives,
secrets,
and pacts.
Now my cousins are grown,
with jobs,
and lives,
and apartments.
Am I all that is left?
Of summers at grandma's house,
of secret bunkers dug,
of V8 cans forgotten in the brush,
of dolls from the basement,
qnd Nancy Drew,
of running around,
and swinging so high you can kick the trees.
Do those days only exist in memory?
Moments shared will be lost forever if I forget,
so I remember,
I reminisce,
and I long.
For ticking clocks,
warm mumbled mornings,
a soft couch to sink into,
a lamp always lit in the doorway,
of strong-smelling sagebrush,
and hand-textured ceilings that you could spend hours finding stories in.