Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.
Evening rays of sunshine lay a dappled pattern on a leftover in my garden. A simple joy in reds and green.....a teapot full of memories waits patiently to greet me....with a song to sing that heads straight for the cupboard of this heart! Sheltered in the shade of a rosebud tree, she stands there....a sturdy stubborn tribute to days gone by. Lined in vintage copper and coated in years of lime, she waits patiently each spring to be dug from the potting shed, stripped of her wayward family of spiders and filled with tender plants and soil. She rests against a wagon wheel from another generation....and graces a boulder dug from the earth from an old family farm. She sits patiently there...welcoming young and old to the garden with a wave from her tiny little spout. She stands strong and proud through the long days of summer ...filled with beautiful, flowering joy. In her belly etched in rust, I can see the wrinkles that lined my Grandmothers hands....strong and slender. In the wood of her handle, I can smell the tea...brewed strong and laced with cream....and sipped in a crackled china cup with a handle too small for fingers. Truly a leftover from days gone by....but a tiny little pleasure I turn to again..and again...filled with memories from home.