And then from the garden, into the kitchen

The heavy, pleasant weight of guava-scented flowers in your belly,
Tomato guts on shoe soles,
The way dirt dries in the creases at the bottom of your sneakers.
Try and remember the click of the screen door as you open it,
The screech it emits,
Shrill, noisy, and exhausted.

Remember the way the yard looked as you left it,
The bright greens of the leaves, trees, bushes.
The sharp contrast of the bulbous yellow lemons, bright juicy cherry tomatoes,
Pink zinnias and delicate purple flowers that 
You can’t help but look out on as you close the door behind you.

As you climb the stairs, each step unbending, 
hard and sudden on the arches of your feet,
Remember the slide of your steps against the painted white wood,
And the way you scraped the soft of your fingertip over the dark polished banister,
Seeking a splinter that wouldn’t pierce,
A piece you could hold in your hand.

Remember the woman in the kitchen,
Dark brown hair, debatably hazel eyes, swirls of blue on her oversized shirt.
Wrinkles marking the edges of a mouth that mirrored your own so remarkably,
Recall the face of the woman who stands in the kitchen, 
A number of feet from your own sweaty toes.

Remember the way you forgot to slip your shoes off,
And remember the way you only remembered this courtesy as you neared the top step.
The way you dashed back down, overwhelmed just as you were seconds ago, by 
the scent of the garden wafting through the screen door.

You slip off your shoes, 
And whip around quick as you can, white spots blurring your vision.
As you climb the stairs by two, skipping the step a dead bee has fallen on,
The kitchen grows nearer and nearer.

The room is monochrome, all the shades of the clouds 
making up the cupboards, sink, and cat bowls on the floor.
Finally, with your socked feet on the tiled kitchen floor, your auntie’s bedroom to your back,
Breath in her kitchen’s stale air, so different from the outside.
And accept the clutched handful of chocolate cherries she gifts you.