Memories are harsh specters,
and white vapor prisons
where family members revisit
the past to avoid the present.

Like friendly spirits
memories cannot touch us
but phase through us
until grief and regret
force us out into a dark fugue.

Wet grass weeps green
beneath the feet that run
in our remembering dreams.

Soft, thin, and wrinkled hands
pass plates around
preparing food
that even today
finds their taste
elicits to many  
confusing emotions and memories.

A small beagle mutt type dog
growls distrustfully
at strangers it sees,
saving all of its salt wet
affections for me.

Old man in a metal reclining lawn chair
still waits somewhere
back there
in a small-town memory,
tickling a smaller version of me
when I try to hug him.

These specter scratch at my skull.
pushing past my mental guard
and get under my skin,
because I still miss them.