is what I find as I rummage through
trembling, red, ever-stored drawers
cardboard corners, caved in at points,
the rattle, rattle, rattle of little elbows
My mother's gentle scolds on harsh winter nights,
as my brother and I tucked them in at our sides,
off the old wooden table that would splinter you when bored
awaiting this rare, cheesy delicacy,
our saving grace, my mother's last resort,
and our beams were contagious
as ketchup painted smiles on warm plates
Withstanding the test of time,
even as childhood does not, and
I grow and fall in love with a woman
other than my mother, as we walk back from class,
palms acquainted, blush dusting ruddy cheeks- faintly
then we slide, side by side, into an old booth
with our meal- a bowl of Mac 'n cheese to share
one spoon, I swoon, as she smiles a smile
not even ketchup could capture;
so here I stand, swaying slightly
my lips, a wistful smile, bare feet on cold tile,
tucking my elbows in, real tight
the ghost of her delicate hands, holding
just one forgotten cardboard box
and the many worlds it unlocks.