(dedicated to grandmother: Martha M. Pancoast)
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Grandmother's House
(by Sandra Pancoast)
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Amemory of childhood,
all the magic it once held,
where it once stood,
locked only in my mind.
Father still has the key,
faded, old, silver-gray design
that was so familiar to me -
only an ornament now.
There are no keyholes to peer through
and no doors to open.
Where once English ivy grew
stand no walls of faded brick.
But I remember summer days:
the oval of a lace-draped table,
sunlight sending brilliant rays
through the glass chandelier,
the table standing on clawed feet,
flanked by the carved backs of chairs.
And I cannot ever repeat
those cherished days of past.
Looking back now I can see
relished images of those things
that meant so much to me.
Grandmother collected treasures:
old bottles of colored glass,
a few dozen small boxes of wood and tin,
anything possible made of brass,
don't ask why, but all sorts of elephants,
a couple of boxes of old keys and locks,
paperweights of glass or stone,
porcelain tiles, glass marbles, shells, and rocks,
childrens' books with yellowed pages,
decks of playing cards in cases,
cats - since they were her love,
souvenirs from other times and places,
and more than I can ever mention.
Something of a person becomes part
of a house lived in long enough,
something not in sight, but in heart.
With Grandmother's House - so it was.
Yet, so many precious things,
lost to all but remembrance,
borne away on time's wings,
fill the rooms of every persons past.
The going of her house left such sorrow,
but I have it still as a memory,
and much more my grief would be tomorrow,
were she to join those lost - but yet remembered.
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