There, the sunlight seeps in from the single pane windows, 

Chipping with old paint like eggshells, 

 

through the worn broken bamboo blinds and the dusty velvet curtains, 

old and mothy, tucked behind the couch so no one has to touch them.

 

It runs its hands in gentle greeting over the off-white feather duvet 

and the loved-smooth leather of the couch cushions, 

 

And oozes over the child bundled up, cocooned in downy softness, 

to glide over a stray scratch on the rich lacquered coffee table, 

 

rolling over the pine floorboards and the mustard walls 

to fill the room with a beautiful peace.

 

In that room, the world glows warm with sweet golden comfort.

Apple juice, Dayquil, a spoonful of honey

 

In a mug of warm tea too big almost to hold, 

One that fades from black to orange when its full,

 

Cough drops, ravioli, gumbo with rice, 

And a couple hard candies when no one is watching.

 

In those afternoons, sometimes, the windows 

would be open so you could hear the gentle revving of cars 

 

on the small two-way street outside, 

and the birds that lived in the tree in our yard.

 

From inside the house you could hear the rustle of the leaves,

and the click clacking of my mother's fingers 

 

Typing away on her computer in the living room, where she worked 

Even on days when I wasn’t sick.

 

The rightmost couch seat, best for watching cartoons and taking naps, 

has a small hole.

Stretched with history, it's soft and worn to a comfy suede.