This is not my grandmother’s
bathroom with the huge tub,
large enough to hold several grandchildren–
a porcelain ship with feet–

the bathroom with its huge tub
where I would stare at the angel on the wall
from inside a porcelain ship with feet,
hoping to grow wings.

I would stare at the angel on the wall,
thinking about my mother–
hoping to grow wings
in my hiding place, alone.

I’m thinking about my mother’s
bathroom, where I would sit
in my hiding place alone,
by myself–watching Cupid’s face

on the bathroom wall, where I would retreat,
away from my parents and brothers,
by myself, watching Cupid’s face
until they pounded on the door.

I hid away from my parents and brothers
and then I hid away from my children
(until they pounded on the door)–
and now I have my very own bathroom,

away from my children–
still my arms remain large enough to hold them.
I have my very own bathroom now–
but I always remember my grandmother’s.

Mish at dVerse asked us to write a poem about a meaningful object starting with “This is not a __”. I changed the “a” to “my”, and wrote a sort-of pantoum.

I don’t have much from my grandmother, but this photo traveled from her bathroom, to my mother’s, to mine.

the magic of mirrors…

22 thoughts on “Heirloom

  1. Thanks. Your poem invoked memories of my grandmother’s bathroom where a similar picture resided. I now wish I had a picture of that picture, but I can always come back to this page and see yours. You don’t think we had the same grandmother do you?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I just loved the layers and repetitions of your “sort of pantoum”. The precious picture remains the constant while stories grow, children grow all around it. Beautifully done!

    Liked by 1 person

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