Farmhouse.

The eventual point of this entire blog is to hopefully get my name and some of my work "out there," mixed in with all of the "fun" posts that I love to write. I am the first to tell you that I hate my own work 99.9% of the time, and the thought of actually posting it is terrifying. So here's the first piece I'll share, and I am only doing so because I found it on my computer & because it is incredibly relevant to the last year of my life. When I originally wrote it almost 2 years ago for my first creative writing class, it's intent was to capture the pain that I imagine my grandmother must have had over losing my grandfather years ago. I honestly don't even remember my biological grandfather that I intended for the piece to be about, but this past year we also lost her 2nd husband, my step-grandfather who had been married to her for the past 13 years. I hadn't thought about my poem again until I stumbled upon it, and I haven't revised it (although it probably needs it) but I figured I might as well start with a piece that I've seperated myself from for a while... so here goes nothing.

Farmhouse.

Amelia Beamer 11.20.09

The old porch still sings

when persuaded by wind.

Decorated by time,

kissed

by neglect.

It’s still ninety-seven steps

to where he lies blanketed

in dirt,

wrapped in the roots

of his favorite ginkgo tree

If her hip isn’t betraying her

That day.

I’ve seen her cry

all of never,

her face the same yet changed,

weathered.

The modest diamond

graces her finger still,

two years of labor

poured into the thought of it

and her

seventy years before.

I am a creation of their love,

a reflection.

His eyes, her hair,

both gone or grayed by now.

A breeze tugs, slamming

at the chipped screen door

and a tired heart.

She turns,

realizing again

that it is not,

will not

ever again be him.