There are things you notice with age -
The splintering of wood porch columns,
Cracks through plaster and paint,
Bubbled, licked with the flames
Of winter. There are things that
Turn your heart around; Grandma's
Coffee cup abandoned in the cupboard, and
The feeling of cross stitch sentiments
Long absent from slanting walls.
There are things that hold your
Attention, the old fashioned
Electrical sockets with thick
Wires exposed like brittle veins,
And the closet doors made too
Small and too cockeyed. You notice,
Too, the foundation, with deep
Furrows, leading to the black underbelly
Of the house, and the chimney with
Old red mortared bricks, sagging at
Points but not breaking. You notice these
Things you didn't notice as a child, when your
Grandmother was living and gentle, and
Your grandfather still snuck bites of pie
From now long empty countertops.
You see these things, inanimate
Elements of a structure so many called
Home. Remnants of family, ground into
The wallpaper and discarded curtains,
Into the dinner table existing there still, that
Held more than its fair share of supper, happiness,
Grief, and fresh yeast rolls. And at that table,
I see my grandmother, like a picture left on a
Mantle, hands folded in front of her, along with
A plate of food barely eaten, and a cup of luke
Warm coffee. We always clung to her and to
The table, when there was no eating left to do.
We always cleaved to the edges of the wood,
Drawing a fork through the bits of memory left
On our plates.
There are things that come with age,
A shift of earth, of thought, of
Meaning in mortar and wood,
And of land rolling into sunrise.
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