Bush House, A Salem Tale Poem by Ariel ~

The older docent glares at me as she sees me enter, Coke
classic, in hand
If my other hand did not hold a ticket, I'm sure she would
refuse me.
She directs me to pour the liquid out, stipulating the house
is a museum
full of heirlooms of another age- We compromise,
my thirst left in the étagère in the hall, This is how I spend
my Mothers Day,
listening for old houses to whisper to me, Tell me their stories
and memories.
Today I'm listening to Asahel's and indeed, the lean efficiant
docent tells his tale,
and that of Estelle, of Asahel the Third, of doting Sally …
"The docent won't speak of me" whispers the girl standing
in the sitting room

"She'll show you my room and boast of it's sink and marble
fireplace
Just as in any room, Talk of the quilt, the empty dresses
on display;
I'm not an heirloom she tell.
I didn't live here, you see, not until I was fifty-three.
I dreamed of here, my loved ones encased within it's walls
And papa... busy papa, sad papa. Sally brought me home
too late
I missed him. Still do"
The group moved on into the Study, and the girl shadowed
behind.
As they peered at old photographs, she tinkered with the
thermostat on the wall -
too focused on it for me to know it is her concern - "There's
a genealogy chart
in the next room …
I missed it. I missed them all."

As the group filed out dutifully - like children under
the charge of
a stern governess
or patients under the custody of a burly orderly
Eugenia noiselessly stood there in the doorway, sizing me up
as if for eternity
"You know what I mean, kindred spirit. You will, too.
If you're sent to Boston, I'll share the house with you."
And with a decided nod, she stepped to the side, "Let's walk
together shall we?
It's nice not to be alone; I'm so glad it's tour day
She usually ends by playing a tube on the organ,
If we'll lucky, Sally sometimes visits then."