Brinley
I am from the Christmas village set that would sit on the mantel above the fireplace year round,
From a piano that never worked but always enticed me to bang on it,
To the matching brown Lazy Boys that sat across from each other.
I am from the gingersnap cookies that would fill the house with a cozy smell every time my grandmother placed them in the oven,
From the apple crisps in the fall to the apple pies in the heart of November,
This place was my home.
I am from the windchimes outside that would sing whenever it was windy
to the rock walls throughout the garden that acted as my playground.
From the dark brown teddy bear that sat atop my grandfather's bed
And the milky white wool afghans that always bundled me up.
I am from the acorn candles i've never seen lit
And the cinnamon stick tea she bought special for me,
From the apple cider always in the fridge and the vanilla almond milk she poured in her coffee.
I am from the concrete basement that I was too scared to enter
And the legend of the ghosts that lived throughout the house,
Courtesy of my cousins, in an attempt to scare me.
From the perfume that smelled like fresh roses and the candles that smelled like a sea breeze.
I am from the taste of honey so rich and so sweet as if the bee brought it to me himself,
From the peanut butter spread across saltines that were ever so dry but oh so tasty.
I am from the large greengrass field with a singular crabapple tree tucked in the corner
From the Pond that was filled with slimy frogs and salamanders that my sister would scoop up with her pink and orange net.
I am from the enormous pine tree in the front yard draped in lights that would light up as bright as the stars on a clear summer night.
From the place that always made me feel warm and safe and the place that brought me as much joy as a child on Christmas day.
