Going Back
J. Cromwell Finkes
The wooden stairway creaks, open arms to young and old.
The smell is not the same, smothered by paint and progress.
It's the feel of the place that remains, the soul of it -
if buildings have such things.
Blades circle, overlooking a younger spinster now in charge.
This is her world, she is Keeper of Treasures, her mind a map
of all that is there. She does not know me.
But I know her.
Long ago afternoons, Gulf breezes eased the heat, a child sat
cross-legged on the floor and, lost in fairytales, passed the time.
Notions of Nintendo were yet unknown and the mind's adventure was
its reward.
Hours flew. Fantasy and new worlds discovered and at four, chimes
announced close - too -soon- too -soon.
Books surrendered, blinds drawn, time to go.
Genteel smiles exchanged, stairs bear nimble steps again,
promises of evening's jasmine scent.
The walk home is pleasant and filled with wonderment.