In An Antique House

When I quietly rise from bed, unable to sleep,
I know you are there. I see, or perhaps feel
Your face hovering in the gloom of the front hall,
You with your sallow cheeks and large, doleful eyes
Which stare at me, cold and vacant,
As they always stare.

Former resident of this old, crooked house,
You watch me open the creaking doors.
You are puzzled to find that your bony hands
Can not turn the glass door knobs,
Yet your breath moves the lace curtains
We have hung in your windows.

Old husbandman, you slowly shake your head at me
As I grope my way through the dark to the old farm kitchen.
I fear that turning on a light will scare you away.
Your watchful presence is unnerving,
Yet somehow comforting.

We are old friend, ghostly companion. Your gray face
Watches me move about the house
With no expression of comprehension.
I hear you closing cabinet doors in the kitchen
Or pounding on the wall outside the back door.
I think it troubles you to see how your house has become old,
How it sags and leans toward the brook
From which your blond sons once pulled trout.

When I pace the confines of your narrow, antique attic
You stand patiently by the fly-specked window, watching me.
And I have the feeling that there is something you would like to say
If you could but bring forth sound from your dusty throat.

I sense your presence throughout the house.
When I stoop bemused in your cramped. musty cellar,
Wondering how much longer the rusting boiler will last
I know you are there with me, also watching.
In the attic, as I look out at the back yard
Through the fly-specked windows you are there,
You and the other wavering shadows
Who still guard this antique house.

I leave the kitchen and return to your bedroom, sliding quietly
Between the sheets so as not to disturb my wife.
As I lie there, listening to my wife and the soft rise and fall of her sleep
I know you are there, too.

Now I can hear you all, crowded together in the hush
Of the empty dining room. You whisper to each other
With dry, paper-thin voices that are like
The rustling of the leaves on the lilacs outside the window.

You look around, revenant inhabitants of this narrow house;
You stare, amazed by what you see.
Where is the reed organ that played hymns in the parlor?
What happened to the clock that hung on the dining room wall?

You stop in the kitchen, wavering,
Afraid of the sleek, humming metal boxes
That stand where you had only a cast iron stove
And a hand pump at the sink.
You reach for chairs that are not where you left them.
You close doors that are no longer there.

The night wears on; soon it will be day.
You hear the whine of the trucks on the interstate.
The plaster walls vibrate at the hum of tires –
Sounds you could never have imagined.

As the dawn light turns to gray I stir in my bed.
You are disquieted, not sure whether to stay
Or to fade into the cracks and dark places
Of your antique house.

Making the Bed

We face each other.
The object of our common purpose, a rectangle of white,
Lies knee-high between us.
I stand on my side, you stand on yours,
Making up the bed for another week.

First comes the bottom sheet, fitted like a purse
To the shape of our mattress by a puckered edge of elastic.
We stretch it tight and tug it over the mattress corners.
The mattress bends upward like a canoe:
Our bed of dreams.

Next is the top sheet, which you unfurl.
It sinks to the bed like a parachute, with a white, clothesline smell.
We spread it out, making sure that the portion of the sheet
That hangs off each side is the same.
After that we spread out the blue blanket
That was a wedding present from a maiden aunt.
The tattered edging is all that remains
Of a well mannered pet cat, long dead.
On top of the blue blanket we drape the heavy, bone-white wool blanket,
That was woven on a farm in Aroostook County by my great-grandmother
Nearly eighty years ago. Little did she know
How well it would keep us warm, so many years later.
When its weight presses and holds us snug in the dark
As the winter winds blow.

As we work we talk and laugh about little things,
Or go about our task in comfortable silence,
All the time smoothing, straightening, and tucking the edges in tightly.
The bed frame adds its own comments with a squeak or a creak
From time to time: the comments of an old maple bed
My wife's parents once slept upon.

The blankets are in place now; we add the finishing touches.
You prefer to hospital corners for your side.
It doesn't matter to me how the blankets are tucked in,
Just as long as a midnight tug doesn't bring them riding
Up over my shins, leaving my feet in the cold.
You fold your side with care. I push the blankets
Under my side of the mattress with a knife-like jab.
The bed, though small, can accomodate
Such differences in folding and tucking philosophies.

Now we stuff each pillow into its cotton sack.
There are four: two pillows are used under each head
For reading, but only one apiece is needed for sleep.
Then, at last, we lay out the bedspread.
It is white, heavy and tufted. You know the name
Of the pattern; I have forgotten it.
Finally we ease the last wrinkles out
By pinching the bedspread between
Thumb and forefinger, then tugging gently.

We straighten up. We have finished.
The bed lies trim and tidy between us.
It is thus we change the sheets once a week,
Working together, apart yet near.
Devoted to the common goal of making smooth, neat,
And comfortable our bed of marriage.

Whippoorwill

Two a.m.
I can not sleep.

Through the open windows I can hear
The trees hissing, tossed by a warm wind.
A whippoorwill chants its circular song.

Through the monitor on the mantle
I hear your labored breath
As you lie in the next room
Busy with the hard work of dying.

2/10/02

In which we return to our cast of characters

Simon, Martin, Thomas, Winston, Alex, Edward, Gordon – quite a few people have contributed to this blog.

Gordon is a bit of a snob, especially when it comes to grammar and word usage. He fancies himself a grammarian.
Martin's concerned about politics.
Alex is just a complainer – and a cynic.
Simon's a funny duck – a bit introspective.
Edward's opinionated and, in general, dissatisfied with everything.
Winston's got hostility issues.
Thomas is accident-prone.

And our humble, anonymous narrator . . . of him, the less said the better.