Lessons
by Odin Roark

Opening the door
Where kitchen comfort once held dreams,
He paused with reverence,
A parentless child was always ready
To allow a full moon to spill its magic
Around and past the shadow of his past.

This was where grandma’s joyful imagination
Could bury the darkened hours of hunger
Inside the flickering flame of a candle,
Or two.

Stirring memories of her unselfish days
His downward glance revealed
Mildewed flooring now covered by fine grit,
As if she had prepared some fantasy-relief,
A sanding of the boards for dancing away the night’s depression,
Or maybe it was merely the brisk commerce of resident mice.

By ghostly gust did it first appear
A mere fluttering across the floorscape
Its lace-like appearance
Forcing a skip of his breath,
Yet proving but a napkin
Of tiny teeth edgings
And yellowing resistance.

Curtains shifted
As the prairie’s nighttime wheeze
Found solace amidst the threadbare curtains
Hanging from patiently carved sticks,
The daytime whittling of her determined will,
Those many long years ago.

Sitting atop the coal burning stove,
He listened carefully as
A chorus of wind-born sounds
Coming from loose clapboards
Flourished their invitation,
Like a deck of riffled cards,
Seeming to insist he remain,

But…

There was no staying to be had.
Sunrise would bring the wrecking crew,
Land development having its final say.

As morning light fanned across the plains,
The bulldozer burial proceeded.
Crushing house and home into land fill heaven,
Never knowing the once ever-present grandmother,
The one the man’s mind refused to let die way back then.
The one whose encouraging whispers would continue
Like an undeniable zephyr of the plains,
Helping her grandson survive the gusts and swirls
Of life’s unpredictable lessons yet to learn,
The ones she never lived to teach.

That’s the voice he knew was following him
Atop the dust plumes of his car’s race to the city,
And the nine o’clock board meeting.

He mustn’t be late.

Land development waited for no one.