My daughter says everything in this house
has its own story
from great-grandmother’s quilt
and mother’s ruby depression glass
to things I once unwrapped
from white paper and ribbon
reserved for wedding gifts.
Each spring, when I open the house
to clean and wash and rearrange
I remember the stories
and whisper them away with the dust
to make the ghosts more comfortable.
©2010, Janet Taliaferro
I like this poem. I think it’s the grandparents house in Wisconsin and probably, simultaneously yours.
I didn’t know you had a website! I have one too.
Stay warm!
Hi, there. I’m formally replying although our e-mails are way ahead of this. Glad you found the web site, but with your boys, I’m not surprised.