Of all the colors for a house, hers
was dull green siding.
The front porch sagged with the weight
of those who have come and gone; cracks
in the foundation allowed stray cats a place to sleep.
The windows would reveal nothing,
escutcheoned with plastic and duct tape.
Out back, a small tree was perfect
for climbing. Wild strawberries were
so tempting for me to pick them all myself.
Of all the smells within a home, hers
was fresh baked bread.
The back door propped open, the scent of lilacs
wafted through the air on the current in the spring.
On each of my fingers, she would slip
a butter cookie, though Mom said
No, my dinner would be spoiled.
The cats would chase their tails, each other, a ball
of string from room to room. Tiny feet would
scamper to keep up.
Nestled in the corner of the loveseat,
cozy in my favorite blanket, I would
read my book, drift off to dreamland,
wake up to the sound of her voice,
calling out the answers
as she watched Jeopardy. I would
try to play too but I did not know.
Years have passed, the house and its owner
both long departed from this earth.
I can still smell the lilacs in the spring.