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.
sbr


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,
looms.
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
gathers
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,
finding
my father's shoes
boxed
as if he had just
laid them there.
later
i climb between
whisper-soft sheets,
and weep
a bit,
knowing
daddy
never once
saw
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.