The same creaking stairway
To secret places, under the eves
Where two sisters played
When pretending and fantasies were real
Generations of spiders
Spinning their webs at the windows
Not touched in years
But washed by the rain, loud to my ears.
The smell of mothballs
Coming from the army of trunks
Lined up against the wall
And in the corner
A tea party is going on
A china set in the Willow Pattern
Half sugar, Half water, Pass the tea.
Two very grown up ladies
Dressed in twenties dresses
Dragging on the floor
Shoes too high to stand up in.
As one fans her self with her elegant fan
The other opens her beaded purse
And applies her lipstick
While her large tortoise shell comb falls out of her hair.
Old pictures covered with dust
Of stern looking ancestors, and the mansions they lived in.
Hidden among them
A picture that glowed in the dark.
A piece of wedding cake wrapped by my grandmother
Tucked away in a trunk
And two sisters
Daring the other to open it.
The cake of the past
Just crumbled like life
Making room for new ones to be baked
When they grew up.
Toys of childhood and special things
And in the middle of the floor
A lone teacup still with crystals
From the syrup we drank.
As I look out the window
Somewhere in the attic of my mind
I am the same person
Locked in my memories
Published in the Hospice News Brochure, when my sister died. Memories of childhood.