Crocheted Memories- Pt In A Series Of Poems Leading To My Death Poem by Ted Sheridan

Precious few things are truly precious
I remember when a room was only a room
Four walls
Covered with some flat color paint
Containing a window
Draped in sheer curtains with a blind for privacy

And a chair

A wooden chair with a worn rounded seat and straight back
A chair you could pull up or place in a corner as needed
It had once been brown and then later at some point
Someone painted it black
To go with the colorfully patched afghan
Mother’s mother had crocheted together from Scottish yarn
The chair and afghan were chosen to share a lifetime together
As did the one coat rack and grandpa’s hat
And the room’s odd molding strip with the notches
Carved into it and each marked with a date and a name
My sister’s name and my brother’s name and then my name
The tallest reaching mark on the wall
We were all precious
As few things are ever again
When once you leave that basic room
And begin to acquire more stuff….
Precious few things are ever as truly precious
As those we first recall....