The white Victorian
on the edge of the green
gingerbread
lace hanging from the eaves
veranda on
the corner
neatly tucked
in.
Enter
through the red front door
you are
welcomed,
wrapped in
love, embraced by time,
these old
things that once were hers:
that old
rug, faded and worn,
that
certain floorboard that squeaks and sets the tea cups rattling
in the china
cupboard
when you
pass by.
There is
her rocker, empty now but still, I hear its distant music.
I know the
yellow paint is peeling off the kitchen walls,
and views
out these windows are wobbly from antique glass panes,
but, this
room holds her presence,
—cooking at
the stove
—feeding grandpa
at the old gray Formica table
—preparing holiday
dinners
—grading student
papers in the evening.
Nana’s
house is where we gathered
as a family
clan so many years ago.
Now
everyone has moved on
far and
wide and involved
In their own
lives
Yet we all
have threads trailing behind us
and tying
us back
to this old
Home.
