WHERE TIME COMES TO LOITER

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The bell above the door still jingles~
a sound like nickels spilling from a tin. 
Inside, the air smells of licorice and mildew,  
of something sweet refusing to let go. 
 
Dusty glass licorice jars sit on the shelf.
A single ceiling bulb flickers 
over penny candies wrapped in wax.  

Wooden floorboards groan underfoot,  
remembering when kids reached for treats on the top shelf
 
A rotary phone rests on the counter, black and patient,  
its coiled cord a noose for yesterday’s conversations.  

Behind the counter, Mrs. Nicholson stalworth stands;
she’d grown up in our town, 
knew everyone and just about everything
about everyone. 

she also knew where everything lived~  
the peppermints, the lye soap, the brittle  
catalogues from 1947 curling at the edges. 
 
She moved slowly, dust rising in her wake,  
a pioneer woman who remembered 
world wars, the Great Depression, and
when bread cost a dime.  

Behind the register, her apron now hangs empty,  
still smelling of peppermint and camphor.  

I pause.
This is where time comes to loiter.

*Mrs. Nicholson was one of Garland's early female entrepreneurs; she established “Nicholson’s Variety Store” in downtown Garland to help support her family after she was widowed. Her husband, Stephen Edwin Nicholson, a former Garland mayor, perished in the deadly May 11, 1927, tornado that swept through Garland. Mrs. Elma Nicholson made dreams come true for many a Garland kiddo back in the day. Her store was a legend on the former Square, as many local children would spend their hard-earned allowances in the store. Their parents would conspire with "Mrs. Nick" to set aside dolls or other toys for Christmas gifts to be retrieved just before Christmas Eve.  (Source: Garland Historical Society)

 You may read the related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/i_remember_when_13626

12th gradechildhoodintrospectionnostalgiafree verse

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