I visit her often
my mother of nearly 100 years
who sits in timeless pause,
absent of her surroundings.
Dust accumulated furniture
with permanent stain
and odors that reek of old
fill the room with distaste.
I watch her sit and stare,
void of thought,
as her finger moves in circular motion
upon a stain
I disgust to touch.
Knick knacks stand atop each other
competing for attention,
only to confuse the room of any sense of order.
I am overwhelmed.
It will be a labor of love
to rebirth this house into a home
when she is gone.

I see him watching me
as he does often when pacing the room,
Oh, how I love the curve of his face
highlighted by the twinkling of dust
that dances in the afternoon light.
I hope he can feel how my thoughts fill this room.
Just as I did the day he lost his first tooth upon this chair,
I caress the moment marked
by red on white.
I breathe in the rich smell of Thanksgivings
and birthdays past,
hidden in the walls
like bread crumbs swept into crevasses and cracks,
and kitchen corners.
I am surrounded by an ocean of childhood love
given in gifts of trinkets
a worth a mother knows
money cannot buy.
Oh, the memories that make this house,
his home.
I am overwhelmed
in the knowing I will leave him this labor of love.

~sf