White Mirror into
the Past
Into the familiar
kitchen I slough
in the half-light
of dawn,
then a jolting
large white object
scares me with
its rectilinear intrusive
mass.
Over the course
of 17 years
this metal box
had become a mirror.
Photos of friends
near and far.
My poems on
curled sheets.
Magnetic icons
scattered across the walls.
School papers of
outstanding grades.
All these showed
who had passed
and who had
grown.
But last night
knowing that our
sheet metal
and plastic
friend
was about to be
relegated
to the back hall,
my wife had
stripped
from off these
walls
the moss and
lichen
grown thick
from our
household’s
spores.
Like a pale
sickly friend
on a gurney,
he dominates the
room.
“Its OK my
friend,
you’ve seen
enough here,
and its not so
far.
You have served
us well.
I’ll come visit
you
in the back hall
on a daily basis.
Everyone will.
And from that
close
to the kitchen
you can hear my
daughter’s voices
as they
recount their
trials and tribulations
at school or
wherever...
I’ll come visit you.”
He hums
appreciatively.
“You know,
the frig
in the back hall
gets all the best
things
the defrosting
Thanksgiving turkey,
then the left
overs,
and all year,
the cakes and
deserts.”
albi
copyright 2001