The long-ago people have never been away.
They come to us from essences and aromas.
The jinni in a bottle of camphor may be grandma
back with her salves and liniments for grandpa.
Sometimes the herringbone pattern in a rag coat
can suddenly set free yesterday's dandy or gent.
Entire afternoons may be relived when we uncork
a bottle of cough syrup or peppermint. Even
the cracks in a forgotten teacup or saucer
may break down doors we thought closed forever.
No one knows what the next teaspoon measures
or what remembrances spill from a cup.
The resounding slap of a razor strap may be papa,
and a maiden aunt may still be swimming in rose water.
They all come back and wait behind the bric-a-brac.
We reach out to them lovingly at rummage sales.
We remember them with hot buscuits and butter.