The Old House
I visited my grandparents today.
Their home has never changed
in all the years I’ve visited
since my life began.
The white ceiling is stained
in shades of orange and peach
from the tobacco pipe
Jim puffs on with grandeur.
The smell put me off
the idea of smoking, but
as an adult, there is comfort
in that sweet, smoky fragrance.
Anne is forever shrinking,
and has been for as long as I can remember.
She is small, but her spirit
and her heart are huge.
I sneak off amidst adult conversation,
as I did in my youth,
to admire the trinkets
hidden away in the dining room.
All brass and silver,
marks and dents from years
of seeing children grow
and bring grandchildren home.
There’s a small bell,
resembling a bobbie’s hat.
Its ring is less impactful
than years ago.
A merry-go-round, ornate horses
frozen mid-leap for decades, and
the little mouse I would hide
in a pinafore pocket,
And the candlestick
I would hook my finger into
and become Scrooge
for an evening.
Nothing moves in their home,
everything is static, frozen in
a place, a time,
well before my own.
I find comfort in the familiar,
in Anne’s cardigans and fairies,
in Jim’s old movies
that played on loop.
Forever thankful that,
while they age, their home
is a constant reminder
of childhood bliss.
Copyright ©
Han Marlowe Turner
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