The Aunts

 

The Aunts
Jean Wolph

Velvet drapes of skin
cascade
down their ivory cheeks.
Dots of rouge—barely rubbed in—
mark my doll-like collection
of Great-Aunts.
They sit in a circle in my head,
my mental parlor.

I hear their voices:
dulce
cultura
pianissimo
largo
seventy, eighty years of
practiced chatter.

I answer when asked,
Then sink into the shadows to listen:
absorb mores
discern attitudes
form perspectives
archive information
sneaking back when dismissed;
“Little pitchers have big ears.”

I see their hands:
pale blue roping crisscrosses fine bones;
rings roll around slender fingers.
knuckles rise like little mountains
seventy, eighty years of
housework, needlework, hard work.

I do as bid,
falling into the rhythm of dining rituals:
set the table
say the grace
“pass the peas, please”
clear the plates
dawdling when directed to go out and play,
tucking into a corner to watch them set the kitchen back to rights.

I look into their eyes:
hazel

periwinkle
cornflower
cinnamon
seventy, eighty years of
knowing looks.

Behind the bannister on the landing above
I close my eyes and breathe:
Crisp starched cotton aprons
Tea roses in vases
A cloud of dusting powder
A whiff of Emeraude
seventy, eighty years of
best foot forward.

Secretly I sort through stacks of old letters,
finger spidery script on the pages,
read of weather and neighbors and church…
the daughter who died
the husband who ran off
the son home from war
the precocious grandchild
seventy, eighty years of
family stories.

Shy to talk to them, still I love to say their names:
Emily
Grace
Birdie
Evelyn
I’m their audience of one, mesmerized,
reliving the plays of their lives.

Half a century they’ve been gone.
I sit at their feet yet,
seeking crinoline and chintz counsel
from these Great-Aunts.