Bush House, a Salem Tale

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 efficient 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
boast of its 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 its 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
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.”