It is not my family of which I speak. ..........Like an old minuet
soft fur........ played on a livingroom piano
warm milk...............(off-white mildly chipped keys; hasn't been tuned since 1950)
the sound of water.........somewhere on the outskirts
rain...................of a Northeastern town on the shores of the River,
unexpected woodland events........the story unfolds with intertwining melodies.
blood stains.............My father reading a story about bear named Rupert.
brown grass on the hills...It was an engossing poem story written in awkward rythyms
in another era.....sent from across the sea by an English woman he met during the war.
warm sun......................... .....My father on the other side of the net,
the smell of green grass.... .......skillfully returning my untutored serve.
on the second day.....My father in the kitchen (with AA revival meetings in his mind)
low flying planes...........opening the refrigerator
the sides of a clear glass .......... in search of gingerale.
a red front door................ the daily in and out flow of a billion bytes....... blink-tagged phrases on student webpages.................... a white shirt....................... so easily forgotten...................... the children laughing.......... blue jeans........ A flock of Monarch butterflies...... the pine trees overhead...... walking............................. riding................................ the horizon........................

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