FIRST LIGHT

The year my grandfather died, 

we left the city and moved to the country. 

It was only the two of us left, the family scattered.

We were leaving behind the old family house 

once filled with a dozen people, 

with memories stashed on every landing, 

the hidy-holes and forgotten treasures—

my favorite armless ragdoll. Once my mother’s.

The new house, really an old summer shack, 

lined with sleeping porches, was hardened for winter, 

the Wedgewood iron firebox glowed, 

heating only the kitchen with a nimbus of woodsmoke.

The rest of the house was an icebox.

We watched our breath create ghosts that followed us, 

then disappeared into the woodwork, 

only to be joined by errant brethren and kin.

We tucked ourselves in closer to the woodstove 

until the morning sun cresting the ridge, 

sliced through the air, illuminating us in the kitchen, 

dazzling us with its brilliance,

the curtains drawn back to capture that first light.

2/23/22 CPITS Write On! Terri Glass class