The Living-Room: The creep of sorrow

Contributed by Quebec poet Barb Kelly. First published in Encore Poetry’s “In Dialogue” issue. 

All trails still lead to that room*

its knotty-pine walls and coffee table                                                                

full of crackers and cheese, chips and drinks,                                                   

the aunts and uncles, settled on couches.  

We’d skied across the top of the hills, through

late-day shadows, feeling the chill, then                                                               

wet mitts piled in bin, spaghetti sauce on stove,                                                   

a two-four by the back door

and the burn of toes and fingers  

by the fire, dad stoking a story. In the air

Dougie’s jokes, Buddy’s smokes and Kay’s songs             

from the war. We’d sing Que Sera Sera as if we knew

the secret of special, the gentle of falling snow.                                        

Finally, mom would yell “That’s it, everyone, time to go!”

At age ten, how could I know? The hide-and-seek

with cousins, the skits for adults, the faraway lands  

in bathrooms and cupboards, and who could hold       

a headstand the longest? But even dad’s tinkering

with the grandfather clock couldn’t stop

our skinny legs landing and sorrow                                  

 from creeping through the door, as sure                   

 as the spread of condos on the trail from before.       

*First line after Faith Shearin’s first line in Directions to Your College Dorm