The place where my great-grandmother lived
(it’s just a house it’s more than a house)
The place where she grew old
The place that stands without her
The place of memory
Hidden in the pink bathroom, the dusty beds, the
Old refrigerator and the rotary phone,
Playing Dr. Saggyboo by the
Bells and the hummingbird feeder,
Brown bread, and Crystal Lake,
My mother reading on Uncle Dick’s dock,
Hannah and Haley and Leah
Summer after summer after summer
Now I smell must and age in the attic—
Old books in boxes
Sounds of bagging from the other room
Two cents for the 1921 paper my father reads now
90 years later
Dry burlap sacks and broken trunks
Barely hanging on in the dust—
Age is bundled away, but to where?
Where is memory stored, when
It’s time for spring cleaning?
We’re all a little older, and
A little sadder now
Waves of nostalgia wash over me,
As I gaze at the fading words on my desk,
And the books my father used to read to us.
I wonder where I’ll put them
When I am old.
-Caleb Ryan
(19 Summers I've been there, but this year it was different.)
Maine Pictures
