Grandmother's House travels in memory.
It has run away from me,
the prodigal grandson.
Most Sundays after church
we would go to Queen Anne's buffeteria
and I would eat fried chicken.
I always had the drumstick, green beans,
and mashed potatoes.
Small white hill topped with a dark lake.
Grandmother's House was made of stone and mortar.
It was three blocks from the ice cream parlor
where Grandfather and I would walk
most afternoons for single-dip vanilla
after playing Chinese Checkers.
The pock-marked star
was a mystical design.
We fell into it, young & old bound together
in silent contemplation.
This was mother's house too, house of her youth.
She was little girl lost amid
train tracks and china tea cups.
Did the little girl walk hand in hand
to the ice cream shop with her father?
Did the little girl
hide under afternoon tea tables?
Did the little girl sew fabric scraps
at the edge of the quilting bee?
I loan the little girl my memories
because she never shared hers.
She never told me how it was that day —
just like that, her hair flamed into snakes,
She saw them rising from her shadow,
and she was frightened.
In her confusion and grief,
she tried to eat her children.
Grandmother's House belonged to her mother before her.
It passed to her daughter after her.
Grandmother's House runs east
on slender chicken legs.
The house is protected by the mystic star.
Grandfather's railroad watch
held its own council in a bell jar
on the faux fireplace mantle.
Its dial illumined the house
during the six months I was Medusa's captive.
There was a closet
on the living room's east wall
where all the toys were stored.
There was the little girl's Shirley Temple tea set,
along with the mystic Chinese checkers,
and the dominoes,
and other mysteries.
The south-east bedroom.
The crib in the corner.
I studied the grey metal bars
and perceived the spirits
that watched over the house.
Those spirits ride the house
in its eastern flight.
Behind the closet,
beyond the mirror,
is the girl Medusa has forgotten.
The girl lost in a snaking labyrinth.
Truth's thread dropped
among miles of coiling paths.
Dark mirror. Coiled paths
like the fiery snakes
dancing on her head.
Grandmother calls me.
She reaches her hand to mine.
It's time to come in.
Bath time. Time for chocolate pudding
with swirling milk puddles.
Time to turn my back on the Gorgon.
Grandmother's House is not running from me.
It's leading me to the next
mystic star, the next
magic mirror, the next
Golden Rectangle Doorway.
21May2005
(Rev 2VI05)