Sliding a piece of this afternoon's
pizza into the toaster oven my Grandma gave
me, I begin thinking about the smell
of her house. In the back of my Dad's
old Thunderbird, we round the hook of road
just before the driveway. Bursting
out of the car, I race my brother up to
the back door, my pink-laced sneakers catching
traction from the textured sandy steps.

The momentum of my enthusiasm launches
me across the brown linoleum floor of the kitchen,
and I land fist first in a turquoise plastic bowl
filled with fresh cherry tomatoes
from Grandpa's garden. Absentmindedly pulling
a magnet off the pantry, I chew the tangy fruits,
search into the dining room, and spelunk under the blue
rope-patterned tablecloth. Rolling
on the carpet, scattering my legs, I study
the workings of the table I will inherit.

Crawling out, I am drawn to the half sewn
satin lingering under the foot of the machine,
clinging to the tissue paper pattern
which is slowly lifting away. The records
of polkas and New York music invite my fingers,
and they dance along to the memory of the sounds.
My exploration leads me to the living room,
where I curl up onto the abrasive orange couch.
Soothed by the lullaby of the Red Sox game on T.V.,
I hide under the furry leopard blanket,

and dream about Stop and Shop lemon-lime
soda cascading over scoops of vanilla ice cream.
My last thoughts are of brass measuring spoons
dancing opposite thousands of glass jars in a fantastical ballet.
As the coils of the Norelco Toaster Range cool,
I sit back down at my desk, breathe in
the chocolately perfumed comfort that has been
passed on to my pizza, and try to swallow
the fleeting taste.