It was Pasta Fagioli
on Cold Afternoons
And Country time
Lemonade on lazy summer afternoons
While I sat on that old rusty porch swing
That thing became a dream Machine.
It was sleepovers at Nonna’s with the cousins
And that faded rose wall paper.
It was nighttime prayers
Kneeling beside the very beds
Our parents had slept when they were little.
It was a closet door made of beads
And filled with a lifetime of memories.
It was books by the hundreds
And word games and the stories
Nonna told that helped
To show us who we were.
It was tinder spots
On a throw rug
And burned embers
And a rocking chair
That I am sure
Would have its own stories to tell.
It was Book Shelves and Cabinets
Handcrafted by Nonno’s skillful hands.
©Michelle R Kidwell
3:35 A.M P.S.T