A Box of Raisins

This is my first one anyone noticed. I was 18...

I make the same trek
(every Sunday afternoon)
down the hollow hallway of the home
and squint sunlight
from my eyes and exhale
the overwhelming scent
of old.

Here comes Tess(wearing her pretty Sunday hat),
her wheelchair edging slowly towards me. Her hands
quiver and her breath creaks
and her eyes remind me
of shriveled green grapes.
She grins and I see
she forgot her teeth again.

She reaches for my hand
and when it locks into mine
I can feel the years
that have dug ditches in her skin.
My right hand steadying
her wheelchair, we turn
into the day room
where idling groups of
grey hairs and golden teeth gather,
coughing wheezing words of wizened wisdom
with breath that smells
like old.

And I remember when I was five
and left a box of raisins
in my kindergarten cubby, wedged
between my gym shoes and my box of crayons,
and they whined and whispered and withered
like this room full of ancient
crinkled
croaking
sunless souls.

Copyright 1991, Melissa Dalman

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