When I was just three, I went to Youngstown with my mother.

I sat in the passenger’s seat with a Happy Meal on my lap

that smelled of greasy fries and heavily dressed meat.

Bold golden sunrays flooded the windshield,

and my mother and I chatted to each other

about the sun, bright and gleaming like God’s smile.

Soon we came to the small green and white house

that was built by my grandfather,

where my mother lived and grew.

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Out of the car we went

and into the smell of wet dog, spring rain and mildew.

Up two small stone steps, my mother knocked and tapped.

Soon Papa came, dressed in clothes that were too tight,

with a smile glowing from his face

that was round and hairy like Barry White’s.

Inside the foyer, the smell of mildew

raised and continued.

Here, were cabinets filled with dusty China and trinkets

that were once polished and brilliantly hued,

and beneath our feet plastic runners scratched and creaked.

Inside the small room, the smell of mildew

and decay were emitted at levels

that reached their highest.

Here, they danced and mingled

with cherry flavored chewing tobacco

that was discarded in Styrofoam spit cups.

On a bed dressed up in white sheets with a shiny metal frame,

my grandmother lay immobile, worn and gray.

I sat, and I waited and look around as I ate.

A picture of Jesus was hung by the doorframe

with His hands spread out as He presented a heart.

The sunrays were shining behind Him

as He held back storm clouds that were gray and dark.

Soon my mother finished talking to my grandmother

and we left the way we came.

We ventured back into the sea of mildew and autumn rain.

- in memory of Alice Townsend