Often times I’d slip into the attic where mother kept her things.
a little nibble of nostalgia, as she would say sometimes,
would latch on inside…and it’s hard to let go.

I know, sometimes that’s the best thing to do,
let things go rather than let them rust away up here all alone,
nestled between two giant chests of baby clothes.

but I’d like to think that deep inside there’s a little piece
of the puzzle behind my childhood tucked away in
the little memories and fragments of mom.

perhaps a photograph of me naked in the tub,
or a letter from dad away at war, the grease stains
from his mess kit a reminder in their own way.

every so often I do this: rummage around my past,
hands carving a way through my history,
finding a gem under a pillow, or ancient afghan.

I knew full well that it wouldn’t last, that time in life,
so I kept it safe somewhere, for times like this,
when I knew that I could savor all I saved.

today, maybe I’ll pick out a portrait, and remember
a warm, glowing day in June, with the flowers outside in bloom,
and dust floating lazily in the sunbeams cast within my room.