Precious few things are truly precious <br />I remember when a room was only a room <br />Four walls <br />Covered with some flat color paint <br />Containing a window <br />Draped in sheer curtains with a blind for privacy <br /> <br />And a chair <br /> <br />A wooden chair with a worn rounded seat and straight back <br />A chair you could pull up or place in a corner as needed <br />It had once been brown and then later at some point <br />Someone painted it black <br />To go with the colorfully patched afghan <br />Mother’s mother had crocheted together from Scottish yarn <br />The chair and afghan were chosen to share a lifetime together <br />As did the one coat rack and grandpa’s hat <br />And the room’s odd molding strip with the notches <br />Carved into it and each marked with a date and a name <br />My sister’s name and my brother’s name and then my name <br />The tallest reaching mark on the wall <br />We were all precious <br />As few things are ever again <br />When once you leave that basic room <br />And begin to acquire more stuff…. <br />Precious few things are ever as truly precious <br />As those we first recall....<br /><br />Ted Sheridan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crocheted-memories-pt-in-a-series-of-poems-leading-to-my-death/
