Pulling
into the driveway, memories make me gasp for air.
Can
anyone know the love that happened here?
The
maple tree out front where I discovered how to make noses out of its seedlings,
and
felt carefree enough to jump in its leaves,
stands
exquisitely rigid demonstrating its stability.
Its
branches reaching for the heavens as if to pull down the home’s occupants for
one last joyful jump.
The
metal gate scrapes against its barrier, gives way, and creaks its opening,
I am
greeted by the paint-thin, red, splintering porch swing where I learned of
mustard seeds.
Salted
mackerel taste still on my tongue.
So
pickled, my fists clench in response.
The
key--reliably found in the metal wash basin
containing
the watering can and long forgotten gardening gloves--
Weighted
in my hand this time,
turning
reluctantly in its receptacle.
Smells
of life and of death hit me,
breaking
a bone.
Clean
laundry folded,
food
spoiling in the trash.
The vinyl
covered kitchen table unmoving in time,
strewn
with hand-written letters, crumbs from shortbread cookies, pill bottles,
and
the latest bargains bought on a whim
to
combat the poverty fought as a child.
In
the corner sits an age-worn tin potato chip can,
my
stool for washing dishes,
still
my favorite go-to make-shift seat when visiting,
waiting
patiently for my return.
I
enter the living room.
To
my left is the book case filled with titles by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and
Clive Barker.
Odd
that my fascination for the macabre began here.
Their
bindings now covered with cobwebs, their pages surely now filled with paper
mites.
I
sit
on
the plank covered radiator next to her recliner,
cloaked
in warmth
transported
back in time.
David
Bowie and Bon Jovi are playing in the background.
A
fresh faced teenager is dancing and giggling with her friends,
stopping
only long enough to stack the next set of 45s.
Spinning
under the glass teardrop chandelier.
Pictures
of ancestors line the wall,
the
sepia bleeding onto itself, blurring the objects into grayness,
like
their life.
Eyes
screaming their woe.
Plastic
everywhere.
On
the windows to keep in the heat.
On
the lampshades to keep out the coal dust.
On
the drying rack to keep the budget.
A tattered,
marked up bible filled with dried, pressed flowers in hand,
I
turn to go.
One
more rose to be weighted inside,
creating
a page marked with existence.
Pulling
out of the driveway, I say a heartfelt prayer
I
was lucky to know the love that happened here.
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