I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.

It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.  

The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.

She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.

—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.  

The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.

Rock forward, rock backward.

What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.

Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.

Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?

I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks  
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.

Rock forward, rock backward.

Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.  

She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.

Rock forward, rock backward.