Grandmas Pantry

Before you even open your eyes-

Old dust envelopes your skin, accompanied by a fleece of warm air;
Thickly perfumed with dill and stale wood.
Your shoulder brushes the sweaty walls oozing with wispy spider webs
While your bare feet slap on the cold, painted cement floor.

When your eyes open-

You see jar after jar lined on the shelf like those of a mad scientist…
But- so neatly marked with care
You get the feeling you have come upon grandma’s jewels,
Hidden far beneath the ground.

The ceiling creaks and groans as people move above you.
Someone pounding down the stairs
Sends dust and dead moths sifting onto your bare summer-tanned arms.
With farm-child indifference you shrug them off-
Reaching for a jar of WWII-era pickles
Strongly resembling sea cucumbers.

Thin light from the single, bare bulb swinging over your head
Illuminates the date from 2 summers ago written on the lid.
Quickly-
You slide the jar back on the shelf.

Moira Donovan