Vintage

He seemed old, like, “what can he possibly tell me” old.

Years of hard work and living,

Showed in the scars and calluses,

Of his hands that were big enough to hold two of my own.

I was there in his shop filled with other people’s memories,

Attempting to recapture a piece of nostalgia I never knew,

But which held values I wanted for my own.

He spoke softly but clearly as tallied my bill,

And his blue eyes were clear as he said,

“You know, you can’t buy what you really desire,

The magic of yesteryear are not in these artifacts.”

“What you are after dwelled in the souls of the people,

The men who labored dusk to dawn to make a life,

The women who baked and stitched,

 And made the humblest abode a home.

It is in time spent with neighbors,

Relationships with your fellow man.

Sugar and spoons always on the table,

A pot of coffee on the fire,

And a welcome cup and conversation,

With any neighbor who happened by.”

I left that shop with an old spoon in a bag,

And his words tumbling around in my head.

I am wiser, I know, and richer too,

As I get to know some folks I share some time with,

Where richness abounds in each other’s stories.