GRAMMA'S SACRED ROOM

Up the stairs, smell apples and pears,

Gramma’s in the barn now, so who cares?

I’ll scamper on up and check it out--

What is that gloomy room all about?

Missionaries are coming here to stay

And that just doesn’t happen every day.

So the shadowed room has been made clean

Any footprints I leave will not be seen.

My Gramma’s been busy and so the dust

is swept away and I know I must

be very careful not to leave

a trace of me or she won’t believe

I’ve been in the kitchen peeling spuds

and washing dishes in lots of suds.

I see as I peer through the low keyhole

on the washstand there, a pitcher and bowl.

Gramma’s gone now thirty years.

The bowl is fine, but I see through tears

the pitcher’s cheeks resemble mine,  

blemished with hairline cracks--a sign

we’re beyond repair, we’ll never again

know that innocent time back when

the worst thing that happened was Gramma came back

and rewarded rebellion with a resolute smack

to the place on my person where it did the most good.

I promised her then that I never would

without permission go tripping upstairs

to the room that smelled of apples and pears.

          How I cherish the pitcher and bowl!

          They satisfy something deep in my soul

And always remind me of Gramma.