The sound of home then was music.
Old records on the turntable,
jarring notes from instrument practicers,
the piano played by whoever passed.
The taste of home was potato salad
made from Mom's special recipe.
The sight of home was books, books, everywhere.
Home now is filled with music.
Home now is filled with books.
Home now is made from recipes,
some inherited and some our own:
potato salad, reading, music, love.
~ Tamary Shoemaker
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(From a prompt at NaPoWriMo to write a "sound of home" poem.)
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