My friend's husband calls to tell meshe cannot go to the beach
with me tomorrow:
she's coming unstitched with worry.
What if she has an episode?
What if her meds fail?
The problem is she remembers
as if it happened yesterday
what her father did long ago
in that house with no white shutters,
with no softness of gathered sheers,
or clean scent of white cotton.
Hers was an unscrubbed shed,
rugs were stained,
windows small and heavily draped
so light and air could not rush in.
She longs for a house
with a blooming sofa heaped with pillows,
a soft throw for an autumn nap,
sunlit bedrooms painted
in dreamy hues.
can be transformed.
A lighthearted realm of seascapes,
candlesticks and books.
A place to host family dinners,
share pure embraces
and remember a beloved past.
