The Cellar

2

cellar

Air moved a trap door
on the chimney in the
cellar, forced heat –
open, shut, open, shut. . .
as if a ghost pushed the
flap back and forth.
Hypnotized by soft sounds
of metal moving.

On cracked cement walls,
father’s pictures hung,
as if they were shedding
tears of dust.

One split second
I heard a train whistle
over there, on the home
made platform, and the
train kept going around
in circles – and he was
there – bending over
the table fixing the city
near the train. . .

Then the rumbling of
a bowling ball, down
DUCI Lanes.  A real set
of pins, a damaged ball,
the alley burnt to the
ground.

And, the washing machine
and the sound of children
laughing when a coke
bottle spun, finding its’
next victim

We all entered the cold
cellar, where we weren’t
suppose to play – and it
was there where I first
tasted lips.

2 Comments
  1. Paula Boer says

    Very touching. Memories can be as solid as those cellar steps.

  2. Nancy Duci Denofio says

    It is a solid memory and you know, I could add and add to those memories, spending so much time down in the cellar – we never did have family rooms back in my time. We did have spider webs, drains in the corner, and even now and then a mouse trap – that was living in the city – that was living in a two family home. I loved every minute of it! Thanks so much. Sincerely, Nancy

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