Early September smells
Of the familiar.
Pungent socks on hissing rads;
Cuffed wellingtons
Strewn on cloak-room floors.
Mine have my initials
In bold red letters.
Peanut butter and oranges
Douse the old rooms,
And Quick swirls in fruit jars.

Home for lunch,
Mammy serves plates
Of beans and bread
To the middle of the table,
Where she'll sit, mug in hand,
After whisking us
Out the door.

I knew she sat there,
Thinking of her
Lost children,
Buried for eternity.
Never to revisit.
No desire to.
Her kettle clouds
The kitchen;
From the vapors she heard,
Bye, Mammy.

Tomorrow, the bells
Ring again.
I'll sit with the kettle
And school days' thoughts
And life's lessons
On history
And good-byes.