Weight of Memory
On the shelf
of the thrift store,
amid detritus
of other lives,
a teacup,
cracked and lined,
and I am in
another time
when she was likely
as young as I
am now, and I was
hardly old enough
to climb
onto the chair alone.
We drank tea from
flowered cups.
She gave me little gloves
she kept in a drawer
of the hutch.
Lace and buttons.
Tea in flowered cups.
My knotty hand
can hardly lift it up,
it weighs that much.
