The Way They Were

The Way They Were

There is a light that only comes in autumn, low and gold and gone by five. It reaches across the room in the late afternoon and lands on everything I have gathered. A chair that sat in a house I will never see. A mirror that held faces long before mine. A table someone set for dinners I was never at. They hold memories that arent mine and in this light I seem to remember it all. That is what I have always loved about old things. I remember the way they were.