It's Still Life

Thursday is Still Laundry Day

For me there’s nothing more innocent
than the smell of turkey roasting.
Instantly … I’m 10 again. Maybe 12.
The kitchen windows drip condensation,
the dining room table is set with Mum’s
special china and the blue opaque glasses.
The dining room smells woody — green

botanicals on the middle of the table
(keep the height low, Mum would say,
so people can speak over the centre-
piece, and of course we all talked
at once, and always in such a hurry).
Autumn always gleamed of saffron, and
Mum’s kitchen seemed warm as whiskey.

And after Thanksgiving dinner, Dad
pulled Christmas out of the loft,
a shower of silver speckling down
from flocked baubles. Those were our
old family traditions, and those days
were a small beauty. Back then,
I’d write old fashioned proper letters.
Used a fountain pen and stationery,
envelopes and postage, but inevitably

it’s for you and I to become memories,
the likes of my hand-written letters.
But all that was too many years ago —
back then when men carved the turkey.
Back then when I spoke in a hurry
and never noticed that clouds slowly
unravelled into wind-raked ripples.
Weather always brings changes.

I’m British now.
Today is laundry day.

Poetic Asides Day 22 & 23: ____ day