Meet me at the old house. But not in the living room. There are too many memories for me, of family squeezed in front of our new marvel of technology, that fuzzy little black and white TV. And not in the kitchen! The air is still pungent with herbed chicken, homegrown turnips and turnip greens, Grandma chiding “Wait until after dinner” as she taps little hands in mock punishment for their cookie thievery. Oh no no not in the dining room! The conversations, the arguments, the laughter still ring in my ears. The announcements of engagements, babies and graduations will always bring me to tears. Never the bedroom! My bare feet still feel the roughness of the woolen rug that covered the floor where we slow danced nude to Marvin Gaye and my body feels the lumps of the old mattress where we made love and babies when we could be alone for the day. Yes, meet me at the old house But not in the rooms where old memories entombed there, will haunt me. Meet me where the dead grass turned brown like dry ground doesn’t taunt me.
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