On occasion I would pass the old house
and remember a few of its treasures.
There were the snow banks
that built up so effectively
against a wall of thin pines
that lined a thin driveway.
There was the first chimney
that I’d ever known.
The first garden in which I’d
gathered a tomato.
There were brick steps leading to
an entry in the back
where I remember
nursing a small dog in its final days.
There was a kitchen where
my grandmother prepared what I considered
my first magnificent meal.
There was a table that held my family
in gregarious conversation.
Beyond that bedrooms
that were always closed
a cat could open.
There was a living room that holds (for me) two memories.
The day before my grandfather passed
he sat in his wheelchair and watched a Super Bowl where
Denver never quite
made it a game
against Joe Montana
but he that didn’t seem to matter.
He seemed to be at his happiest then
when my family
The other memory of that room
is far too insignificant