Dark
rain-slicked streets, and trolley wires glistening
wet.
traffic rushing by, spraying water as they pass.
this is the long ride home from Grandma's
house.
The
boarding house she owned was big and foreboding,
with small suites that smelled of vinegar and
turpentine.
I remember the long hallway with the umbrella
tree,
and the paisley wallpaper, gaudy, large but with
the
feeling of belonging.
the silver teapot and the thin china plates,
the rotating lamp that looked like a forest fire,
the outside window ledges covered in coal dust,
the octopus-like furnace in the basement.
Just down
the street, the television store
where I saw my first T.V,
my face pressed against the window
to catch a glimpse of fuzzy, out-of-focus images
of
cowboys and Donald Duck.
And that
special feeling of comfort and love that only a
trip
to Grandma's house can bring.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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