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.
~Kathie Adams Brown (April 13, 2014)