Sunlight slowly seeps
into these brittle bones of mine,
which in the midst of winter creak
like an old toy
whose key has remained unwound
for decades of years.

It gives my heart life, this light,
its soft, caressing warmth a cloak
that reminds me of a now hazy past,
filled with dirt-speckled dungarees
and the chaos and joy that co-exist
in a full home.

Golden rays run across the porch,
across my rocking chair,
across the bark of the oak tree
which still has carved into it
all of our names.

My eyes follow this trail
that winds its way across my backyard,
leading my thoughts
into a now almost forgotten past,
and I remember.

I remember steaming cups of cocoa,
catching snowflakes on my tongue,
dancing deliriously to the beat of laughter,
and making snow angels under the sun.
I remember my father making Ma a hot cuppa,
the pumpkin-frosting cake that was his favorite,
and the way she’d rest her head on his shoulder
when they waltzed under the mistletoe every year.

But just like the fog on our windows
that would appear every single dawn,
my memories have but more or less faded away now,
receding so deep into my mind
that only a few still stay to surface again.
And sitting here, all alone on my porch,
I sigh and close my eyes,
while the sunlight dances across my eyelids
like those fleeting memories of mine.