Cryptic Lives

 

Cryptic Lives
Jean Wolph

Rummaging through Grandma’s trunk in the attic,
trying on her flapper-days wedding dress
and 7-quad-A three-inch heels,
snapping fox mouths
to fox tails
around my neck

the bare bulb
swing
ing
on its cloth-wrapped cord,
throwing the spotlight
to small, black corners,
revealing new treasures
to explore
in this smothering tomb

secreted from the activities of the house
by insulated walls
and the heavy door
which MUST be left closed,
lest the heat—or our antics—
escape

Who were they,
these people we found in the attic,
the ones whose faces were smooth,
the ones who received letters from chums,
who carried tiny metallic purses,
wore gangster suits,
played Bottom in a college Shakespeare production,
then boxed up their lives,
side by side, into trunks.

Would I too leave my youth
to mothballs and dry-rot
in a forbidden room,
to someday forget
who I was
and wake up as someone else,

a Grandmother,
a Church Lady,
a Woman of Responsibility?

Who were they?

A sobering thought,
to learn that
Grandmas
were once
Girls.