My childhood home is filled with plants,
plants that we never water
but are somehow still alive.
Its island is littered with junk mail,
different types of olive oil,
stray flakes of salt,
and packages of wildflower seed.
It is filled with special love presents
and house shoes.
It holds nightly episodes of Jeopardy,
rare old books,
and curated tchotchkes.
Old mugs,
empty cookie tins,
salt shakers,
Turkish rugs,
acoustic rock music,
and love.
My childhood home is filled with love.
Comments
literally crying. childhood is so special.
The nostalgiaaa. Lovely poem
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