by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I find Ruth’s obituary –
she died on Christmas day 2019.
She sold me her Cape Cod
a few years ago.  It was built
by her father in 1936
when she was eight.
They were Belgian farm people,
the original ones who
settled St. Charles.

The front door is white
with a thin crack
running through it.
It has a fan window and
crystal door knobs, the same
kind my grandma had
in her old house –
heavy and prismed
like the past.
I dream about them.

One day I opened my door –
there was Ruth, with
farm eggs and some photos
of the house long ago.
The wind lashed, rain
poured down.  She leaned
sideways but wouldn’t
come in, had things to do.
She said This rain won’t hurt me!
then seemed to fly off
on the winds.

I shut the front door.
I dream about Ruth.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Every front door lets in the past, then lets it out.

Cimera Author Photograph copy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tricia Marcella Cimera is a Midwestern poet with a worldview. Recently her micro-chapbook called GO SLOW, LEONARD COHEN was released through the Origami Poems Project.  One of the poems, plum poem, received a Pushcart Prize nomination.  Tricia lives with her husband and family of animals in Illinois, in a town called St. Charles, by a river named Fox, with a Poetry Box in her front yard.