The Weight of an Old Quilt, Remembered

Sometimes I dream I walk into a random closet and I’m in the old house,
the Philly row house.
The stairs to the second floor are impossibly high and steep, like they are
when you’re five.
The second-floor bathroom has those tiny white hexagonal tiles
and a claw-footed tub.
In the playroom, the black-and-white horse rocks on its springs
to the vent-fan’s hum.
The steam radiators clang and pipes gurgle; the house seems alive.
No sound of people.
I strain for a whiff of toast, roasting lamb, or spaghetti sauce from the kitchen.
The effort wakes me
but the last shred of sleep is a feather from a down quilt, drifting across the floor.

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