There is a power object in my living room.
It is unassuming enough –
Soft patterned muted tones in wide blended strips
browns and soft beiges
Folded neatly. Set upon the upper left arm
of the couch.
It eminates
People and animals are
drawn to it…
They nuzzle it – draw it up
around them-
Yet, for all this interaction
from people to pets and back again
it retains
It’s own particular scent
which never changes
It’s own particular feel
which never alters
It’s own particular specific
essence of soothing well being
It landed in my hands
when my brother tossed it to me
and said “then thee take this one”
In the midst of our unraveling
of a lifetime’s inheritance
of physical objects, books,
belongings
It is the same smell and rough
woolen fibre it has always been
From the days when my mother rested
beneath it on the wicker couch
in her study…
To the days before that –
Which I’ve come to believe
were the days it belonged to my
Father’s father –
Originally I had thought
It came from my mother’s side
of the family
But lately it speaks to me
and denies this inheritance.
There’s no one left to tell me,
or prove the origins of its existance.
But if feels to me like Papa
and mom –
and home.
it seems to have
that effect
on most everyone.
