My grandparents’ furniture.

These things around are not just things,
But remnants of your bygone days –
holding neither bits nor bobs
but memories of all your ways.
A touch of walnut, brush of lace,
and I am five years old again.
The scent of powder, cakes and oil
makes me wish I were still ten.
But you are gone and I am grown,
with my own house to care for now,
surrounded still by all your things,
I bathe in memory, love and…

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