I remember
a simpler time
when dad would come in
and we could smell the fresh icy air
of a day working in the yard
draped around him still
like the cloak of fatherhood

When the burn of the cold
still pricked our cheeks
as we giggled and slurped up
hot soup, strained of course
with spongy white batch
all prepared specially to thaw out
our snowman building bodies
and Christmas lights flickered
across our steamed windows
as the blue-black night pulled itself over
like a vale sprinkled with glitter

Our home
in the spotlight of a glowing moon
that shone down on us
tucked up cozy under fuzzy blankets
the kind that tickled your skin
and smelled of washing
in our old farmhouse
bundled up in blind bliss
crunchy snow softening
and gliding off our wellingtons
beyond in the boiler tank shed
that hummed and sang us to sleep
the dog dozing at the door
reaping the soon to be diminished kitchen light

The house
creaked and banged gently
sighing away the life it held within its walls today
as my parents moved about below
and read together on the couch

I flee this world
and climb back into a memory
of my young self
lying beside her on the bed
her breath untroubled and even
fair eyelashes closed tight
nothing to keep her awake
as her sister snored softly beside her

Amanda Graham

Amanda Graham

Editor at NY Literary Magazine
Amanda holds an M.A. in History. She loves well-written poetry and romance novels. Amanda has 2 cats and a 3-year-old son.
Amanda Graham

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