Friday, May 01, 2009


mine is a life of things—
my grandmother’s eggbeater,
the green painted handle
worn smooth
by the same hand that fed the hens
and gathered the eggs,
that measured the salt
the flour, the milk
and flipped the pancakes
as I do now

like the cradle fashioned by
my grandfather’s hands,
that held first the grandbabies
and when they had grown,
the great grandbabies

and now cradles my childhood dolls

like the jackknife that lived
in my father’s pants pocket—
that freed tangled kite strings
and fishing line, opened can tops,
cut forked branches
for roasting marshmallows

things like my mother’s
green china teapot—
memories pouring from the
spout, as warm and welcome
as the lemon cookies on
the saucer underneath my
own cup


herhimnbryn said...

How very good to document this. Your 'things' and your words conjur up such glorious images.

Barbara said...

This so perfectly shows you not as a hoarder of things but a collector of memories! I'm sure someone will lovingly cherish each of these things and remember you some day.

Sky said...

i love to read here. it is always soothing to me. your words create images in such a way that when i read i am actually seeing a story come alive, as though it is all happening before me.

i, too, value "things" from days gone by. sometimes i give friends a little tour accompanied by the history of various pieces. it is comforting to me to have those things here in our life.

meggie said...

How wonderful, filled with love.
I too love coming here to read your wonderful words & memories. I have such things that I value, beyond treasure. They keep our loved ones with us always.