My Memories

I want to leave a well-worn staircase, memories of my trips dented on the corners

Rusty pipes instead of polished brass.

I want to leave my handprint in the cement in front of the steps, filled with coarse gravel,

Such a contrast to the beaten but smooth and lumpy wooden floors.

I’m leaving the big oak tree draped with green, yellow, and white swings

and the strong, sweet smelling grape vines curling on the fence,

Not the store bought baskets filled with morning glories.

“That Was Yesterday” and “Let It Be”

I’ll leave Christmas

(The dry pine still hiding in the heaters, sometimes filling the room with its bitter scent)

And bestow blessings on Pittsburgh, New Castle, and Hermitage.

I want to leave memories of the original Hungarian Chicken Paprikash and Stuffed Cabbage dishes my great grandmother made me.

She always said to me, “Szeretlek.”

I’m leaving tea stained musical scripts under my bed, ripped choral music sitting on the dresser, and my voice, still vibrating melodies deep within the cracking walls.