Monday, December 1, 2014

my mother's house

author's note: it's likely that my reader has forgotten about me, it's been months since i've written anything. i've been blaming this on the fact i've had nothing important to say (as if i ever did in the first place.)

but as Advent begins, i've felt a little nudge again, a stretching that means the words are trying to get back to work. i hope you'll be willing to take a peek, at least for a short season, to see if there is still worth left in what you find here. my first effort is something like poetry. I am no poet. but i hope you will see the story in my words.

in my mother's house

sunlight pours 
through the open front door,
a puddle of warmth 
where the dog
sits, watching 
her world.
the living room rug
wearing the same colors as
my mother-made 
prom dress,
stretches out
in pinks, blues and aquas
of a spring bouquet,
a perfect fit.
the secretary where 
my father sat and
opened his letters, 
a memory 
of him holding his
letter opener,
the cat 
sprawled across
her mahogany throne,
waiting to hear his news.
now mama turns 
on the gas logs
with her 
new remote,
scans the paper
as her 
youngest grandson
his angular legs, 
so like my father's
and stretches
across the sofa
which i never saw him do.
i toss my suitcase 
on the bed that was
my brother's
in the old house,
my father's shoes
as if he had just
laid them there.
i climb between
whisper-soft sheets,
and weep
a bit,
never once 
the sun
spill through
my mother's 
new front door.

writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.