i wonder if the lemons on her branches still grow. and what happened to the dust from the rooms below, they used to be so empty.
they only held the beds and dressers and i can't help but wonder if those were even real, and what did they once hold of the sisters and daughters, and a son.
i know the bed frame was hollow and you'd hide jewels in there, ofΒ all the stories i've been told.
i know how the kitchen wore herself how pretty she sat against the white stuccoed wall. how the window framed itself so that the kitchen shone, through the branches of the lemon tree, at dusk. black shutters, an eggshell blue enamel sink, a terrace with cast iron railings, the terrazzo floors.
in our summers there we'd lay out a mattress and sleep outside with the mosquitos in the mornings, weβd rise just in time to watch the sun creep over the church on the horizon.