Blanket Box

Today I am posting a poem about my biological grandmother. When the beautiful person I'd known as my Nanna passed in 2000, it was discovered that my mother had been adopted. After some research we found that her mother had died, under suspicious circumstances when she was 33. She left behind 6 children, all of whom had been adopted out. She fell down the backstairs of a then bakery in Springhill.

I took my mother to see the house where her mother had once been and that night I had a dream about a bedroom. When I woke up I wrote this. When I read it over, I realise it is just a fancy way of saying that no matter what I may discover, I will never have the chance to know who she was.

Blanket Box

A chipped and splintered blanket box, with mothballs scattered through.
There are lace curtains, fading yellow. There is no memory of you.
Windows streaked and dirty, the latches rusted through.
Thre is a locket on the dresser. There is no memory of you.

Shadowed corners don't betray the secrets you have kept.
A patchwork quilt lays crumpled on the place where you once slept.
Heavy hangs the musty air, and no trace of you lingers.
Cobwebs twine around the rings, once worn on your fingers.

Weathered floorboards underfoot, and old rug wearing through.
There are scattered broken photo frames. There is no memory of you.
Letters with no words upon the pages I've read through.
There are dried flowers on the pillowcase. There is no memory of you.

Papered walls, so vibrant, now are fading daffodils.
Pot plants pre-arranged, remain, upon the windowsills.
Above your bed you had scratched your name in secrecy.
Revealed in time by pictures that now hang unevenly.

Open drawers do not reveal sentiments to view.
Hidden doors do not appear and open onto you.
As I close the door behind me, cold winds whisper through.
There is nothing to remind me. There is no memory of you.

Bella Magic