Once Upon a Time

The room was pink...sweet pea pink.

Crisp white cotton sheets under

cotton candy chenille bedspreads.

Pastel icing over twin beds.

White pine shelves, dark with the oil

of years of hands

choosing books.

My ABCs'

Three Bears

Treasure Island

Swiss Family Robinson.

Bindings loved to shreds, replaced with calico,

glued on with the white of an egg.

Secret cubbies, with pine cones, nicked porcelain teacups painted with violets.

Tiny dolls with gunnysack dresses and yarn hair smelling of the attic.

In the buckled plaster and paint of the ceiling,

a woman's profile,

like Grandma's cameo with a fancy frame.

Summer thunderstorms come slowly across the orchard.

The smell of warm metal and wet hay...

rain splattering off the porch roof

through the rusty screen

til darkness lowers.

Quiet voices rise through a floor register.

Fingers of light slip under the old door,

glide across worn rag rugs,

caress a brow,

kiss a sleeping angel.

E. Strain

2/16/98

Childhood Bedroom

The double-block farmhouse was well over a hundred years old. My sister and I shared the big pink bedroom that sprawled over the second floor. Memories return me to the security of that place when regression seems the only salve for life's wounds.

It's walk-in closet had a tiny, low window---perfect for a cozy playhouse. Crisp white cotton sheets were hidden by candy-colored chenille bedspreads that lay like pastel icing over our bed. Bookshelves held our favorite storybooks, their bindings loved into shreds, then carefully replaced with calico scraps held on with the white of an egg. Hand-hewn wooden shelves held our treasures---pine cones, nicked porcelain teacups painted with delicate faded violets, tiny dolls with gunnysack dresses. Long, faded blue curtains captured every warm breeze.

Faintly buckled plaster and paint made patterns in the ceiling. If I lay on my bed just right, I could see the profile of a pretty woman, like my gramma's cameo, complete with a fancy frame.

During summer thunderstorms, we'd lay across my bed overlooking the porch roof and watch the world turn shimmering green and wet. The rain spattered off the roof, filtered through the rusty screen, and flicked drops on our cheeks and lips.

At night, quiet voices rose with the warm air from the floor grates. fingers of light from the hall lamp slipped under our door and spread over the rag rugs by our beds, giving us the feeling of being safe and guarded.