Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in California.
Scraps of the World
By Bobbi Sinha-Morey
It was like having small
scraps of the world
under my bed. In a dress
box spilling over the edge
were old pictures, dozens
of lost faces I’d sift through
that would drift beneath
my dreams when I slept.
Their images would make
a shape around me like
a grandmother’s embrace,
and their song of kinship
was the pathway where
all of us met, a song I never
knew handed down from
hearts to those who cared.
I still have the oval mirror
once owned by my cousin
who died long ago. When
I’m sleepy I think of the
stories over the past
hundred years that had
been told.
scraps of the world
under my bed. In a dress
box spilling over the edge
were old pictures, dozens
of lost faces I’d sift through
that would drift beneath
my dreams when I slept.
Their images would make
a shape around me like
a grandmother’s embrace,
and their song of kinship
was the pathway where
all of us met, a song I never
knew handed down from
hearts to those who cared.
I still have the oval mirror
once owned by my cousin
who died long ago. When
I’m sleepy I think of the
stories over the past
hundred years that had
been told.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Great opening line!