The Chimney

PEAR closes out his part of April

The chimney in the attic,
Rose quite naturally to the
Chimney above, but there was
Nothing natural about the last
Six feet of stone and plaster in
Side the house.Likely built in 1815
– two centuries ago, the Composition
Of the mortar, paste, or stucco wasn’t
Anything like the exterior walls of the
House, or even of the smokehouse near
by. The texture was shiny and smooth in
Its roughness, with a look that said that
The beholder ought to be able to pinch
And squeeze the bumps out of shape,
Like peeling chewing gum from under
Neath a school desk top.

When the attic served
As bedroom, all the luster
Stayed in place, In an act of
Camaraderie with memories I harbor
In imagination taut – no strength is needed
To recall the things you wish were true. Fast forward
More than twenty years, when then the time had come
To purge the attic and my parents’ home. Here I was sentenced
To undress the room - (Accumulated files, clothes and furniture)
The attic soon reduced to nakedness – Emptied of all nostalgia,
Committed to removal, The place where I grew up was merely old.
The chimney did not shine. The dust from fiberglass quite compromised
Cast layers upon layers of decay to shadow one-time shiny chimneys, tired
gray. Before I made my way down creaky attic steps, I saw the spot where
Once my father threw me in a fit. At three, I’d flung a flooring tile, hard, and creased a cut above his eye when he he’d been making this a room for older kids – my brothers. And then I raced back up to run my wrinkled Fingers over chimney paste, to see if I could make the plaster shine again. To my surprise the surface felt the same, and when I ran my hand to wipe the dust, it came away with ease. It’s been three years since we made exit, but I know, upstairs, within the house I think we’ll always call our own, the odd misshapen chimney always shines, and no layers of dust can ever last.