Memories Through Windows

A grey world, shaded in blue. My head poking out from under the green. I am scared of the semi dark. I see in the light, knowing that the light cannot see what is in the dark. My mom tells me to imagine the light surrounding me. Safe now. The light is not the same all over. It changes or stands individually but protective. The light proves me strong, composed most powerful the structures of the world. I am new, young, filled with misunderstandings attempting but never been understood. In truth, I lay on bed of darkness, retaining what goes on forever. What keeps me afloat are images of sliced cool cucumbers in the salad my mom made for us at dinning room dinners. The rice held strong, but fell soft. Warm dim light, a candle illuminating wood, production of the soft bulb underneath an old cheerful lamp shade. We all sit, I don’t remember who was always there but feel comfortable in knowing that I loved them all. Or if in kitchen, feeling of her warm embrace transpired into the food of each bite. I embrace now, but the food is not as good, its production is improving. The way my chair was angled, the way one leg is out and one is under the table that hums with a jolt, legs that danced the yellow linoleum of a golden gate weaved. The heat pots steam glass. It’s been so long since steamed glass. So long since embracing cooking. So long since young days. For granted? Obviously not.