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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 13:27:26 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 145784
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Virgin Ground
[time] => 2008-10-19 14:28:54
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => He was the neighbor boy and I, the city girl banished to the countryside to learn hard work from the grandparents who dairy-farmed. l The rumbling train after the long flight, the smell in the air jumbled my brain everything outside that train window seemed isolated, alien and I felt alone. I sat next to an older woman who without looking whispered see the pretty cow? Her grandchild came from the bathroom late— first case of mistaken identity. Old barn but a beautiful house and a bumpy pickup truck ride later we were there. Grandpa’s smell was earthy, gasoline, fresh dirt and he talked the entire while spelling out my chores; all the things I would have to do, but, he would help, he would show me how to milk the cows. Grandma’s living room was a doily museum everywhere a starched doily, under lamps some with coasters inside one with a flower vase. This was grandpas and grandmas. My room was all gingham and florals, muted pinks, greens and reds the one Susie had; all her things preserved there and I began a slow fingering of them as soon as grandma closed the door; a 4-H photo of Susie and a dairy cow; a cheerleader’s outfit in the closet; a boy and her with prom roses at the front door. I hug my clothes slowly because some of hers were still there, and I dropped my tennis bracelet on the closet floor to discover there a loose board. I pried it loose to discover a shoe box barely visible in the dark. I froze looked up listening close to see if anyone would be coming up; took my nail file and finished the excavation work; holding at last in my hand something whose contents I had already pieced together in my mind as to what was in Susie’s treasure box forgotten there. Easy open; letters wrapped with a red ribbon jewelry, a photo and other things yet unidentified. The room secure, I read around the ribbon to see some of the letters had stamps and had been mailed others had not-- written but not mailed. One of these I opened slowly and began to read. “You were my Virgin Spring; my Thomas flower blooming; and I was Virgin Ground”. Struck, should I read on or close the letter and put back the top of the shoe box? [comments] => 2 [counter] => 170 [topic] => 43 [informant] => lnnie [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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