Tuesday, February 16, 2016
The little war-time cottage had
only five tiny rooms.
I spent much time in the living room,
listening to radio stories on winter afternoons,
much time as a growing teen
in the back porch talking to Grandma.
We both withdrew to the porch
when the adults started pouring drinks,
ice cubes tinkling in the glasses,
laughter growing louder.
We both hated "the drink".
But it is the kitchen I remember,
where she made wonderful lemon cookies,
pancakes, cups of tea for tea parties.
And soup. Soup for after school,
comforting and nourishing,
to be supped with a deep-bowled china spoon,
one of which I still have.
Mostly, it was the peace,
a quiet so pervasive you could hear
the metal clock on the kitchen windowsill,
ticking and tocking all over the house.
At Grandma's house, the hours rolled by
predictably and uneventfully,
the hosing down of the outside of the house
on early summer mornings
against the heat of the day,
the simple meals that came at eight a.m.,
twelve noon, six p.m. like clockwork.
When I think of childhood
it is the rooms in Grandma's house
that I remember.
They were the anchor of my childhood,
where all my best memories
for Mary's Poetics prompt over at dVerse: Room