Crumbs are scattered on our wooden table
Like scarves blowing at midnight
Or a shoe flipped on its side
They’ve gone, left us behind
Finished their lattes and their biscotti
Walking home after the café has closed
The scarf catching on a chair back
Or the fleur-de-lys of a cast iron fence
Or simply wafting out from the fingers holding it.
Memory. Remembrance. Remnants.
Left over fabric
The last unsold books
The smells that tap directly into memory
The lilacs in the outdoor patio in Santa Fe
The wisteria in Italy
The honey suckle in my Gram’s backyard
These smells of sweet sweet plants.
A patchwork quilt
Of events and times and places
Food. And smells. Touch
The air on my skin
The way energy rushes through my body
The way he smells
The way his mouth twitches
The way my heart stutters and falls into rhythm
The sense of possibilities
And live woven together in a rich tapestry.
Find out more about Paula Hendricks at paulahendricks.com
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