Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

Thank you, Dagmara K, for publishing this memoir poem on Spillwords!

This haunting happened to me in my maternal grandparents’ house when I was 15 years old. I was visiting them that summer. At that time, my grandfather, BT (which he preferred to be called), had remarried. His second wife’s name was Sylvia. BT’s first wife, Lilian, passed away from a heart attack in the late 50s.

This haunting occurred in the basement of BT’s home. I was awakened one night by a loud party upstairs…..

Spooked

Night, a suffocating tar pitch.
A whisper strokes my hair.
Laughter and the clinking of glasses
from somewhere overhead.
Music winging to my ears.
I want not to be alone
in night’s dark mound.
Beneath my feet, an ice rink.
I glide in the shadows of this cave,
holding onto the limestone walls,
feeling for handholds and footholds for my ascent.
The light, a sliver of moon,
my rope to the entryway.
I grasp it and pull—suddenly
an open door, a crack of laughter, applause.
Wafts of cookies, cake, cherry pie.
Dark wavy hair frames her pale face.
Her wild eyes warn.
“Go away.”
“Please may I come in?”
“You can’t. Go away.”
Refusals, shivering gusts
slam the door.
Cast out, I rappel down to the trail,
collapse into the pit.
The pine splinters.
Icy filigree fingers blanket me—

That was Lilian—
my dead grandmother!

Spooked