It’s the little things that
make up my personality.
All those tiny tidbits
that cling to my brain
like cereal-box stickers
on bedroom windows

The telephone number
from my childhood home
the patterns of the turning dial
on the single rotary phone
at the desk in the dining room.

The way grandmother smelled
like mothballs and
burnt coffee and
Sunday roast beef dinners and
Bible school flannel graph lessons.

The flash of fireflies on
muggy summer evenings
in the Kansas summertime
peels of children’s laughter
as we filled jars with phosphorescence.

It’s the little things
that shine as silver threads in
the quilt I am still stitching,
bringing comfort, continuity
character to my waning days.