My childhood neighbors were blue-haired ladies
in black high-topped shoes with 2-inch heels
balancing on stepping stones, gardening
in house-dresses, explaining the importance
of ants on peonies to make the buds open.
Behind the lace curtains, their dark furniture
was covered with knick-knacks, doilies and
black-and-white photos in silver frames.
In the wrong climate for grandma’s
hydrangeas, we made do with her hollyhocks
out by the alley gate. All tomatoes
were heirloom tomatoes, and all our neighbors
were vintage. Now that I’m their age,
practicing yoga among antiques from the 1980s,
do young people consider me quaint?
Inspired by a #PaintChip prompt.