The Dark Bedroom
[1953—St. Paul, Minnesota] It’s hard to forget ones old home, or house, it was on Arch Street in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was: grandpa, mom and my brother Mike (my older brother by two-years: I was six then), along with two aunts all lived there in the early 50s; an extended family type situation you could say. Anyhow, he was snoring away—(Mike) you could see into the livingroom through the open space of the door (I opened it a bit), the space heater was flickering with light—I could see it, hear it; it was where everyone was—everyone besides me and my brother—that is, everyone else in the household in the livingroom. “Hush in there,” Mother said, “…you boys go-on to sleep now.” The black mantel clock was ticking, the door shut again, and the room went dark Mike said, beside me “Go to sleep—will you!” pulling the covers over his head So I remained quiet; restless, but quiet I could hear voices in the livingroom; it was as if I could hear the dark it stopped, and mother looked at me peeking through the opening of the door again Grandpa was smoking his pipe as usual, sitting by the fire, socks on, the big black and white T.V. on; mother just bought it at the Emporium I think, or perhaps the Golden Rule, a few months prior The dark went away, and mother looked at me again; Betty and Rose were watching the T.V., her sisters. Mom walked by my door again, smiled, walking to the kitchen, couldn’t tell if the smile was for me—the smile—or something someone said in the living room; she had a lit cigarette, a chain smoker. No. Grandpa said, mother had asked a question. Yes, Betty said. As mother walked by with two glasses of water, cigarette in her mouth she looked at me again. Then the dark came back, she had shut the door, kicked it I think. I could sense her presence standing and waiting outside the door; she was still outside I think, waiting for me to open it, I’m sure of it. I could hear her breathing, I think. Then I woke up, it was morning. |