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When Time Stands Still: A Poetic Reflection
When I Visit My Grandmother (A Poem) i donβt know what time it is because my grandmother has built a library the library covers the counters, the tables, the sofa, the chairs stacks of her past, stacks of another time, rise upon each surface i ask her oftenβ βgrandmother, what is this?β βgrandmother, why hold onto this?β βgrandmother, why keep this?β and she hums within her labyrinth of leather-bound books and encyclopedias and dusty trunks and old stage memorabilia her eyes, rich in images only she can see her eyes, baby blue, carrying spring her eyes, hushed, as she converts ghosts into words to help me understand the stacks of another time β β β puttering in her gentle way she explains how she traveled the world expelling a fur coat in my arms, βit will fit you,β she says she weaves her hands in and out of cabinets propagating silverware, dishes, cookware of various sizes βI always liked to bake with this one,β she laughs, holding a giant spoon wooden & scarred, i imagine it flour-dusted, faithful to her, in her generations of bread when i first learned about God, i pictured my grandmother; her hands outstretched to pour sweet syrup over pancakes or easiness upon dim shoulders i imagine it again as she settles her collections into a box. into a box for me. β β β next, a yearbook from 1942 cover-to-cover of pin curls and tailored suits, gentlemen and ladies in wartime glamour βand there he isβ, she says pointing black-hair slicked back. itβs her father, shining like a star. with her finger against the photograph her face opens, unjaded and juvenile, beneath her wiser skin β β β quiet walkways unearth organically amid her archives, rising on either side of us. i walk carefully, step-by-step along the frayed edges of her befores hazy light seeps where it can, contouring us like specters guided by a gibbous moon and within this library, nestled beneath the aroma of old books, confined to crooked shadows & billowing dust, hides a mantle clock both handsβ lifeless. silent. succumbed. i donβt know what time it is.
Source: When Time Stands Still: A Poetic Reflection

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