Inexorable Age
Despite open windows and
doors,
the bedroom reeks of camphor balls
and rubbing oils,
the stuffiness of hoarded
things,
treasured memories crammed
in suitcases,
stored under bed, on the top
of closets.
Smells linger in plastered
walls,
and wood grains,
permeate clothes and rugs.
The fight against
these signs of aging is
constant
when one’s mate cannot see
them
and is the perpetrator.
The rays of youth, sucked in
during a walk in the woods,
after partaking in city life
are strangled in the house’s
hallway.
My companion and I return
to this replica of
grandmother’s house.
This part of her memory
I would like to keep at bay,
postpone if I could,
but it has begun to cling to
my skin.
© Althea Romeo-Mark, 05.02.13
I like this. Aging, death, memories-one cannot escape.
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