a book left open

i remember

their houses,

grandparents

and parents.

how they lived was

in the air.

the essence of them,

their  appetites, their desires.

the old wood in 

the fireplace,

the stove unclean,

a faucet leaking,

a window cracked

to let in

the garden mint,

or snow.

the curtains

dust laden, pulled closed.

the rugs that needed

beating,

the stuffing in a sofa

exposed.

a book left open, 

with a few pages left

to go.