Almost a year from the last harvest moon
when we had to close mami’s house
The towel inherited from her linen closet
a mix of soap and saffron scented nights
the cloth the color of achiote seeds

stopping to open kitchen drawers and cabinet doors
after cutting ginger on the faded, scarred board
we’ve had since before the first child was born
I see vintage glasses, the bowls that my mother gave me
the plates we found in a cluttered old shop
the sets of salt and pepper shakers, the old Spanish fans
with painted pictures in their folds
who would want them now or tomorrow

we fill the recycling bin with boxes, plastic containers and bottles
aspiring stewards of the earth, believing that from our trash
new uses new value, tiny kindnesses to the earth
my youngest loves estate sales he buys to mix with the new
my oldest loves modern, simple lines, disposable treasures
what if I packed a wagon with my old and loved collections

rang a bell and peddled noisely outside their homes
would they then consider the artifacts of my life
would they keep or buy the pieces tagged
with a scroll to unravel ancestral stories
into bedtime rimes for the next times
or would the wagon continue clanging along
night after night till the rise of the super moon
as word of mouth draws strangers hunting for deals
who lighten my load delighted by the treasures they find
returning home wagon empty
a part of me questions and regrets
till my sticky key opens the cold door
warm scent of saffron welcomes me back
olefactory memories embedded
sprinkled on my skin
no gold no silk no silver to leave you
just the fragrance of saffron rice
the taste of stories
the scent of home