i'd lay awake on the living room floor, small legs tucked into
a giant, warm sleeping bag. i was safe, there, with my sister sleeping next to me--
i was safe. i remember listening to
the low whoosh of the cars on the long road outside, rhythmic and halting.
it was like a lullaby, the way someone somewhere was still awake.
her carpet smelled slightly dusty, and the little angel nightlight glowed,
giving off a halo of warm, yellow light. i listened to my sister breathe.
i lifted my eyes to the windows that looked out on the road, and
i watched the moon, looking down at me. he smiled and i sighed,
looking at the place on the ground where he etched windowpanes
in bright, white light on the carpet. it was quiet, i remember,
and the air was still. i could hear the whole house, the rumble of the refrigerator and
the sighing of the floorboards as the house fell asleep.
i remember how everything looked gray from behind the veil of darkness, even
with the moon shining through the windows; the old, purple recliner was seeped of it's hue,
the keyboard and the wooden doors and the lamps on the end tables;
everything was asleep but me. it was chilling, being the only one awake.
i remember waiting for the sun to rise because i couldn't bear closing my eyes, not when
everything was so beautiful. i remember dreading falling asleep, for fear i'd miss
the next car that went swishing by. i remember my young eyes traveling over everything,
reading the story of a life that had long since passed by.
and then i'd open my eyes and realize that the moon had traded places with the sun,
that my sister was still sleeping next to me and grandma still resting on the recliner
i'd climb out of bed and reach for the books she always kept -- old, faded books with large words,
telling stories of hippos and ants and friendly ghosts. i'd brush my fingers over their softened covers,
corners rubbed away. and i'd wait eagerly for my sister to wake up; waiting patiently
until we could start another day.
little poem about my childhood memories about my grandma carol's house and what it means to me :) i have many, many more stories about her house -- the way we'd always tell her we were hungry just as she'd tuck us in so she'd give us a little bedtime snack... the way my cousins and i would huddle at the end of the hallway and whisper about this or that, and throw stuff down the old laundry chute... the way we explored her unfinished basement and made up stories about being trapped inside of a labyrinth... the way we played in the woods behind the house and built forts made out of sticks we found... i love my grandma carol's house. it's been really hard not being able to go in or see her during quarantine, and i get really sad every time i think about spending christmas without her. :( so... yeah. that's all :) if you think i should write more poems about the memories i have above, just lmk! i'm interested to see whether you all are interested ;)
hope you're all doing well <33 love you all!