Sweat of his brow and love for her
Or maybe it was just what one did
Making new life in a new land
Their daughters, one my mother
Born here into not quite home
He was taken by a car
She by much slower means
Is this house a house
Or is it a mausoleum?
I climb the stairs to her room
Banister beneath my hands
Dust like film over everything
Crows cawing outside in trees
Fingertips touching wallpaper
Wood creaking beneath my feet
As if the old man were saying
"You are not worthy..."
Yet I know he loved me
First-born grandchild
I was carried on his shoulders
Meant to be Prime Minister
If he'd lived the disappointment
Would have killed him
The bedroom is small, tidy
Smelling slightly of mothballs
And stale cigarette smoke
The mattress drooping in the middle
Where their bodies would have fallen
After a hard days work,
Collapsing together like continents
He might have stroked her hair
She might have touched his face
And together they dreamed
Locked in sleep's embrace
© shaun patrick green 2012
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