Capsule

i came of age in the sunroom 

off of my grandma’s bedroom;

spare square feet bustling with energy

until i am able to isolate when my childhood

came to a close. 

 

as i remember it:

warmth seeps through the window blinds

even in december, the icy cold

not daring to invade this space.

agatha christie specials on the tv,

half-done knitting spread across the 

hand-painted side table, slipped stitches

first sign of something sinister to come.

shelves full of dog-eared titles,

honor bestowed with every borrowed copy.

paint and pencil shavings, warnings

of projects still drying on the windowsill.

drawers full of detritus from a life

lived fully until its close.
 

as it sits at this moment:

the blinds feel oppressive now, trying to

hold in something that is long gone,

the paintings left behind pillaged in an attempt to

have something to hold on to. 

only one sketch sits on the bulletin board

(i cried at first glance because it is me at 

age five, cheeks round, heart still full).

opening new drawers fails to be an adventure,

and is instead a moment of overreach.

the desk is missing its chair.

it doesn’t feel warm anymore,

not even as the last tendrils of autumn sun

attempt to leak in.