The House on Cat's Ears Road
i remember
staring up at the empty sky
from the back of my parents’ pick up
when we used to drive out
to the house on cat’s ears road –
our Chevy bouncing on ruts and ridges
blowing dust up the skirts of the pines
the truck rocked on a narrow driveway
which curled into a yard filled
with flowers and tractor parts
in the thick of woodtick territory
the house sat,
sulking in the sun,
too warn-out to give a damn
and on its crooked front porch
sat my grandparents
Charles and Lucienne
Together since the war
And warring ever since
The whole drive over
Mom (mentally) packed her bags
For Grandma's expertly-planned guilt trips
And my dad would plan our elaborate
reasons for escape
the slam of the truck doors
was Grandpa’s cue to lean over to put out his cigarette
In their green ceramic birdbath,
filled with marbles
and fallen leaves
and drowned bugs
his kiss left the taste of smoke on my cheeks
and Grandma rubbed my shoulders clumsily and led us inside,
where the smell of old
competed with Pine Sol and vinegar
their house was decorated in
various shades of plastic
a happy acrylic cat sat curled and glossy
next to plastic logs and a plastic fire
couches coated in transluscent covers
a bright bouquet of synthetic roses
on their coffee table
grandma’s shelves held us trapped in photos
taken at the ages she liked us best
in her living room I will be thirteen forever
with a perm and fan-bangs and braces
and a neon pink chip ‘n pepper shirt
and their bedrooms,
one on either side of the house
were each secluded and serene
her bedroom, with sunlight streaming
through lace curtains
coddled its polished chrome grooming set
and prismatic perfume bottles,
and the latest Harlequin Romance
adorned her bedside table
his was dusty and dark
a jar of lukewarm water
and a stained hankerchief rested by his pillow
and nudged under the bed
was the stack of Playboys
that my cousins and I stole into
while Grandpa napped in the afternoons
when all my cousins were over
we would let their dog off his leash
and play Don’t Get Humped By Humper
(he was named for obvious reasons)
and we ran screaming
until our lungs burned
and nowhere was off limits
not the shed full of sharp, rusty garden tools
not the back field with bear traps laid out like land mines
not even their old truck with the keys still in the ignition
(the same truck that was found, one bright Sunday morning,
two miles away from their home
with Grandpa curled between the dashboard and the floormats
cradling an empty bottle of Crown Royal
in his arms like a newborn)
Each time we pulled away
My dad waved out the window
And honked like he was in a parade.
We left the same exact scene:
My grandfather’s hand swept up to shade his eyes
Greasy shirt unbuttoned to his belly
Grandma always in a floral print
Her hands firmly folded in her lap
Holding tight to what little
was left of her patience
staring up at the empty sky
from the back of my parents’ pick up
when we used to drive out
to the house on cat’s ears road –
our Chevy bouncing on ruts and ridges
blowing dust up the skirts of the pines
the truck rocked on a narrow driveway
which curled into a yard filled
with flowers and tractor parts
in the thick of woodtick territory
the house sat,
sulking in the sun,
too warn-out to give a damn
and on its crooked front porch
sat my grandparents
Charles and Lucienne
Together since the war
And warring ever since
The whole drive over
Mom (mentally) packed her bags
For Grandma's expertly-planned guilt trips
And my dad would plan our elaborate
reasons for escape
the slam of the truck doors
was Grandpa’s cue to lean over to put out his cigarette
In their green ceramic birdbath,
filled with marbles
and fallen leaves
and drowned bugs
his kiss left the taste of smoke on my cheeks
and Grandma rubbed my shoulders clumsily and led us inside,
where the smell of old
competed with Pine Sol and vinegar
their house was decorated in
various shades of plastic
a happy acrylic cat sat curled and glossy
next to plastic logs and a plastic fire
couches coated in transluscent covers
a bright bouquet of synthetic roses
on their coffee table
grandma’s shelves held us trapped in photos
taken at the ages she liked us best
in her living room I will be thirteen forever
with a perm and fan-bangs and braces
and a neon pink chip ‘n pepper shirt
and their bedrooms,
one on either side of the house
were each secluded and serene
her bedroom, with sunlight streaming
through lace curtains
coddled its polished chrome grooming set
and prismatic perfume bottles,
and the latest Harlequin Romance
adorned her bedside table
his was dusty and dark
a jar of lukewarm water
and a stained hankerchief rested by his pillow
and nudged under the bed
was the stack of Playboys
that my cousins and I stole into
while Grandpa napped in the afternoons
when all my cousins were over
we would let their dog off his leash
and play Don’t Get Humped By Humper
(he was named for obvious reasons)
and we ran screaming
until our lungs burned
and nowhere was off limits
not the shed full of sharp, rusty garden tools
not the back field with bear traps laid out like land mines
not even their old truck with the keys still in the ignition
(the same truck that was found, one bright Sunday morning,
two miles away from their home
with Grandpa curled between the dashboard and the floormats
cradling an empty bottle of Crown Royal
in his arms like a newborn)
Each time we pulled away
My dad waved out the window
And honked like he was in a parade.
We left the same exact scene:
My grandfather’s hand swept up to shade his eyes
Greasy shirt unbuttoned to his belly
Grandma always in a floral print
Her hands firmly folded in her lap
Holding tight to what little
was left of her patience
