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Remembered
I remember in every detail
the kitchen where my grandmother
worked while helping out
at my uncle’s convenience store.
There was just a flimsy curtain
separating the living quarters;
a bell would announce
when customers walked in.
I remember that big window by the table
where there was a tiny 6” tv and
the far corner where once in a while
she would pull out the ringer washer.
What a huge ordeal that was
a full day’s work then hanging on the clothesline.
Often we’d play cards in the afternoon
maybe have a treat
My slightly older cousin was in school.
My aunt was my grandmother’s baby sister
and she was dying of cancer.
She never left her bedroom at the back,
mostly she slept and I was never to disturb her.
It was always a gloomy house
with every curtain drawn,
always quiet, always dark.
One day the house was filled with guests.
It was particularly somber with a lot of whispers;
they had come to say their final farewells.
Since then the house has been torn down
to widen the road and the bridge
but in all my memories I still picture it
as the house where i had never seen joy
and the kitchen seemed to be the only place
where sunshine was allowed.
Copyright ©
Line Gauthier
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