Clinton St.

What I remember most

about my grandparents house

is the slate gray stone

from which it was constructed.

Old and regal.

Almost Gothic

in it's jagged age

at least that's how it appeared

to my child's eyes

timeworn and

mysterious.

But despite it's impassive aesthetic

it was a place of comfort.

For a time.

My sister, cousins, and I

would spend hours

producing puppet shows

from the balcony

with stuffed animals

dangling from ribbon.

In the basement
a disused pool table

the remenant
of a fabled
marital argument.

A pear tree

in the back yard

a wedding gift

to my parents

which they planted there,
where they had their reception.

The garage which

as we grew

we stealthily climbed atop.

Those and a hundred memories

too faded by time, 

too dream like

to exhume.

But last

my grandfather's tan recliner

large, soft, and safe.

In it, the mythic presence

of my grandfather

Irv

who towers 

over my childhood,

his kindness in life

and the void he left

in death.

Everything changed after that.