Going Home

by Christine Adams Beckett

The final stages of packing for a
Weekend away involve decisions
Concerning the produce that remains
In the Mother Hubbard refrigerator.
What’s left? Odiferous reminders
Of want and waste, seasoned with
Expiry dates and missed opportunities,
Tangible evidence of hearty meals,
Both utilitarian and celebratory.

The last of the olfactory offenders,
A fuzzy hunk of manchego cheese
Given lovingly by a faraway host: a
Spanish ewe with an exotic look in her eye.
Once divinely dressed in a fig chutney,
Paired inter-culturally with a granny smith apple,
A queso gives way to time, or the lack of it.
Any self-respecting New Englander
Would cut off the offensive parts
And call it a luncheon.

The thermostat turned low, a cool
Hush envelops the house with one
Last aroma to decipher: the quiet
Bouquet given in commemoration
Of nothing in particular: two
Weeks old, the gerbera daisies lay
Wilted, exhausted and supported
By hearty, whitish-green
Hydrangea that traditionally decorate
Many a Connecticut cottage.

Plucked from the florist’s vase, their
Stalky stems were tipped with brown
Where they were cut from its host.
Trimmed again, introduced
To a traveling milk jug, bound for
An heirloom piece of crockery in which
Its blooms would slowly lose
Its dewey countenance, and
With dignity dry to an indiscernible,
Subtle change of color: vintage, charmed,
A muted hue with a suggestion
Of its natural strength and sensibility.