Everything is Present
Today I walked past the house of longing, past the just ok restaurant of regret on my way home. People touched their fingers to their heads while thinking. Everyone was drinking something. Everything is always present. All my old friends and even my mother call my name. This is not a dream. This is the house of memory. Here I hang pasta on dishtowels on the back of chairs to dry, cook sauces for hours, flowers open quickly like hands spread in surprise. My mother waves a wooden spoon. We tell stories that change with every telling, of a madras skirt, a fortune teller. We lose our shoes in the surf of a sudden wave. My sailboat capsizes. There is a new arrival who reminds us of the hot dog sliding down your body leaving a yellow slash outside the British Museum. My younger self comes and sits beside me and I am so glad she is not ashamed to see what I have become.
Today I walked past the house of longing, past the just ok restaurant of regret on my way home. People touched their fingers to their heads while thinking. Everyone was drinking something. Everything is always present. All my old friends and even my mother call my name. This is not a dream. This is the house of memory. Here I hang pasta on dishtowels on the back of chairs to dry, cook sauces for hours, flowers open quickly like hands spread in surprise. My mother waves a wooden spoon. We tell stories that change with every telling, of a madras skirt, a fortune teller. We lose our shoes in the surf of a sudden wave. My sailboat capsizes. There is a new arrival who reminds us of the hot dog sliding down your body leaving a yellow slash outside the British Museum. My younger self comes and sits beside me and I am so glad she is not ashamed to see what I have become.