dominos

a door opened to the past

bringing the scent of White Shoulders

and honeysuckle soap from lives lived a long time ago

memories sweet as perfume are all I keep

tucked into linen handkerchiefs edged in lace

I no longer open the door to sadness

or welcome grief when it comes to call

Instead, I send them off with stories of Grandmere’s buttermilk biscuits

Mamma’s stirrup cake covered in hot fudge

and laughter at the snap of dominos on the dining room table.

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