She looks old, and young,
And old again, as we pack
Her up. And she is empty.
For the first time in forty years,
she is empty again. As dust filters the light
I stand in silence. In the heat of this June day,
I stand and pack.
And wrap paper over each plate,
Each cup, each bowl. The dust filters the sun, the paper
Dries my hands. The cups, the plates,
the bowls are packed.
And the whispers of the past creep up on me to
Say goodbye.
They filter the silence. The dust filters
The light. I am sad, for she is a part of me. But she is
only a house, and Grandma is here.
Here with me as I pack,
and she sits, and is old and young,
and old again, as her memories
are alive, and filter the light, as the sun
pours through the dust.