Forever in September

FOREVER IN SEPTEMBER (edited version, 6/15/07, please compare and comment)
Death is a house of many rooms,
carpeted with footfalls
in echoes
on soft, flowing white;
and painted quite over
the color of children’s laughter.
This room
is my refuge, of overstuffed chairs.
Sit here awhile,
slip away,
where counterfeit warmth may envelope me,
blanket my sorrow with Star Trek and Wizard of Oz.
Or this room
drapes open,
not drawn against prying eyes,
looks out at the yard where I played.
How the grass has grown greener,
since our childhood games,
of leap frog and king on the hill.
Pass here down the hall,
decorated in frames of life;
images captured
on cardboard.
Like the one of you smiling by the Christmas tree,
face brittle with holiday cheer.
Or holding
my newborn child in your arms.
Tiny recollections
in squares with sharp edges.
There are none of my mother and me.
To the kitchen then
and chocolate chip cookies,
the melting aroma
tricks over the scent of fear.
Spagetti with bread, macaroni and cheese,
silence, with butter and jam.
Your table set oh so mannerly,
with toss-n-chip china,
and laden down,
weighted down, dishes of guilt.
In each room two parts of you linger,
one thing for outsiders to see,
oh, the learning and lessons, and new Easter shoes.
and some other
of shame and mean accusations,
hidden in darkly for me.
Perry and Bootsie.
Charley and Smokey and Sam,
terrified pets and cuddled companions
closed in my green and pink bedroom,
hours,
while both of you screamed.
Broken cups and promises
and bones,
my third generation Schwinn.
Makeup on bruises,
and acres of square dancing clothes.
Such odd little snippets
of childhoods end,
paid visits now only in memories,
to this house that was never my home.


FOREVER IN SEPTEMBER

Death is a house of many rooms,
carpeted with footfalls,
in echoes,
on soft, flowing white,
and painted
the color of children’s laughter.
This room,
is the comfort of overstuffed chairs.
Sit here awhile,
Let the warmth surround you,
blanket your sorrow with Star Trek and Wizard of Oz.
This room,
is the yard where you played.
How the grass has grown greener
with silly games,
like leap frog and king of the hill.
Here’s the hall,
decorated with framed images.
Snapshots captured in time.
Like the one of you smiling by the Christmas tree,
and holding my child in your arms.
To the kitchen,
and chocolate chip cookies.
Spaghetti, macaroni and cheese.
Your table set with fine china,
and laden with dishes of love.
In each room something of you lingers.
Something special to see.
Learning and lessons.
and new Easter shoes.
Perry and Bootsie. Charley, Smokey and Sam.
My green and pink bedroom.
My third generation Schwinn.
and acres of square dancing clothes.
Though I visit now only in memories,
Your house will always be home.

by Ellen Lane, for her Mother, Jean Wright, Sept. 8, 2004