In summers bright, our footsteps lead
To where the blooming gardens heed.
Grandparents' house, a cherished place,
Where time stands still in warm embrace.
The gate creaks open, welcome wide,
With laughter that cannot be denied.
Beneath the ancient willow tree,
We share our secrets, wild and free.
The kitchen hums with fragrant air,
As Grandma's baking fills us there.
Her hands, a dance of flour and dough,
Create delights that make hearts glow.
In Grandpa's tales of days gone by,
We see the world through wisdom's eye.
His stories weave a magic thread,
Of times before, yet never dead.
The attic holds a treasure trove,
Of memories that gently rove.
Old photographs and letters worn,
A bridge to those who came before.
The nights are soft with whispered breeze,
And fireflies dance among the trees.
We lay beneath the starlit dome,
And dream of far-off lands to roam.
Yet in this place of love and care,
We find a peace beyond compare.
A vacation wrapped in tender light,
At grandparents' house, all feels right.
About the Creator
Lilyđź’ś
"Where words meet wonder, and stories sparkle with the magic of life."
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
Comments (1)
Such sweet memories those are. Loved your poem!