Memento

It's funny to me how they like the same
color
things.
Both could spend time on
just so
and they both have an eye.

I walk around her apartment
the small succulents in soft yellow cachepots
lined up in a row
among candles and river stones,
perched on the sill
overlooking the street below,
all on square turquoise plates
The pumpkin orange coffee mugs
on the shelf next to four small dishes
from my grandmother.
The coffee pot and grinder and toaster and beans
and small ceramic spoons in a glass
The lacquered red boxes
holding nothing
on display with the things my sister makes
of pieces of puzzles
held together with color.

Both love things.
They derive great pleasure from things
and the moments and places where they find them.
They collect and curate
and always share gladly
and sometimes forget what they might already have.
I wander slowly through the place
and imagine these collections of objects
in my own home
with color I can't get right
on furniture that wobbles.
Too much.
Not enough.
I rearrange and clear off surfaces
and closets
until they hold nothing.