I remember them days.
At the piano;
I'd play the songs, Mama would sing.
She'd hum the tunes into my head.
My fingers--they'd slowly glide across the shiny keys.
I remember them days.
Mama would spend Sunday evenings in the kitchen,
Our home smelled of heaven.
We'd sit as family around the dinner table on those nights;
My scarred knees rubbing against the brown mahogany wood.
I remember them days.
Our feet planted on the gravel of the driveway;
Each of our eyes glaring at the stars above our heads.
"Come on in now," Mama would call out.
She'd tuck me in at night.
I remember that day.
I awakened to the sunlight bleeding in through my window shades,
Mama didn't wake up that day.
The piano remained untouched and out of tune.
Our home smelled of sorrow.
The stars fell from the sky and up went Mama.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem