Things That Linger, by Nancy Osborn

Inspired by the poem “Adios,” by Naomi Shihab Nye, which contains the line:
"Think of things that linger: leaves, / cartons and napkins, the damp smell of mold."



the sound of the final chord of the piece by Chopin, filled with sharps that cause my fingers to stretch to reach the black keys

the smell of yeast as the bread dough breathes and expands in the mixing bowl

the slight tension in my back even as I hear my yoga teacher remind us to just be, just do nothing, just breathe

the brightness to the west after the sun has set behind the hills, letting us continue to sit on the porch even as the darkness creeps from the east

the scent of sunshine in clothes brought inside from the clothesline

the moist trails on the garden stepping stones showing us the paths the snails took before dawn

the echoes left behind by thunder as the next flash of lightning crosses the sky, followed by the after-image brightness of that flash

the pieces of thread that litter the floor after a sewing project is finished

the memory of the softness of my mother's cheek the last time I caressed it in a goodbye

the mysteriousness of ghost images in an inadvertent double-exposure, something that never happens with digital photos

the memory of myself jumping rope, joyfully, easily even as I sometimes now find my walking pace slow as knees speak up and ask me to pay attention to them

the way the fingers of the waves seem to grasp the sand as the tide goes out, keeping their hold on the land as long as possible

the shimmer of chalk dust in the air after cleaning the classroom erasers

the welcome coolness of shade even as I walk beyond it into the sunlight

the scent of basil on my fingertips long after I've picked and shredded the leaves for pesto

the fading pencilled notes in an old college textbook, carefully written to remind me of some valuable insight but making no sense to me now

the fragile paper-y wasp nest after the first frost

last week's collection of fruit and vegetable peelings, as they are slowly eaten by the worms in the compost heap

the desire to make sense of the world

my foot still feeling that pebble in my shoe even after I've shaken it out onto the sidewalk

the burning sweetness that continues to bite your tongue even after you spit out an Atomic fireball

the scent of pine when you walk on a soft, padded trail of needles

the warmth left in the cloth napkin after smoothing its sprinkled dampness with an iron

the film of molasses in the measuring cup when I am making brown bread

the French verb conjugations from 55 years ago, chanted out loud with my classmates, for which I now have no use

the taste of glue after I've sealed another letter to my sister

the glorious feeling of freedom I felt the first time I rode my bicycle out of our driveway, beyond our block, and into the unknown and unfamiliar streets of our neighborhood

the memories of all the libraries that have welcomed me in over the years: the creak of their wooden floors, the smell of their books, the smoothness of their wooden seats, the quietness that gave me shelter and peace of mind