Asters, Lilies, Roses

The room in which I slept
when visiting my grandparents
had twin beds with lily-floral duvets,
rose wallpaper, stained-blue vanity.
I always liked the matching stool
with its spinning mechanism
and needle-pointed aster cover.
I’d sit with my back to the mirror
torquing back and forth just slightly
reviewing the sparse assortment
of paperbacks scattered on shelves
amongst framed family photos
and covered tissue boxes.
I think I was eleven years old
when I swiped a copy of In Cold Blood,
reading it on the sly, fairly
certain I wasn’t supposed to
but wondering why they’d leave
such a book in the kids’ guest room
if they didn’t expect us kids to read.
Reading in the bathroom, in the closet:
“The Last To See Them Alive.”
Asters, lilies, roses. Blood.

Linking up with Write On Edge! “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953).