My parents lived in an old house,
filled with cats, dogs, children,
memories of relatives,
worn tattered furniture.
It didn’t take much to evoke the past,
Pull up the shadowy images of
children who climbed trees,
Played kick the can together
Times that went by too fast.
Those memories are sacred,
Often I dredge them up
and clean them until they shine.
They may not mean anything to others
But they are sacred to me,
And they will always be.