Grandma’s Closet

What I remember most
Is a quality of light
Not smells, not faces
Not the events of the days that passed like time in a dream
But a quality of light -
Warm yellow
Filled with promise and motes of dust
And a singular silence that was both peaceful and disquieting.

The house was put together
Like the patchwork quilt on her bed
One room added after another
Like settlers huddled around a campfire.
Haphazard, the house, no planning…
It had happened as life happens
In the heat of the day
On the spur of the moment
When you least expect it.

The closet had been built
To accommodate a growing teenage girl
With secrets of her own –
Put up in such haste
That a window had been walled into it.

The wonders of gramma’s closet,
Mamma’s closet -
were manifest in a child’s new eyes
Like pirate’s treasure and Easter eggs,
Imagination and anticipation
Made every found object magical.


Lost in the closet, for hours on end
I would open boxes
And press my face
Into old ball gowns with taffeta skirts
Hearing the subtle crush of the fabric
And imagining the sound it would have made
Moving across a long forgotten dance floor.

There was a foot stool –
Just my size
With the tapestry faces of Jesus
And the apostles finishing the last supper
Just before they did the dishes and headed for bed…

And I would plant my butt on those holy faces
And take unholy pleasure in spying on the world
From inside the dark closet
Catching a giggle of wicked pleasure
In my tiny fist
As I watched the world like a fly on the wall
Present but unseen
And waited expectantly for the
GREAT MYSTERIES
to be revealed.


Kate Huettich