The old linoleum curls at the edge

The old linoleum curls at the edge,

a pattern faded, worn down to the dredge.

I step on memories, bright colors once bold,

now whispers of stories that never get told.

Nostalgia washes over like light through a crack,

reminding me of the years that won’t come back.

Each step takes me deeper, into my mother’s home,

where the floors hold the echoes of feet that once roamed.