The Old House

What I would give now to go back to the complete
and utter banality of that moment in the modest
house, a lazy Saturday in October.  Lunch had been
eaten, and with no agenda except to wait for dinner,
things were said and done, but what they were – I
don’t remember.

I only remember that they were plain and ordinary,
full of hope and ignorance about the future.

And I only know that my mother will never move
like that again, with the vitality of a much younger
mother, that my one sister is no longer a baby sister,
and that my father will never stand like that again,
that tall, much younger man that I remember.

Who would have thought that such a boring
utter non-event would become a memory that I treasure.


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