We’d drive the highway to meet eternity
my mother and I,
until we reached an antique treasure
buried in the heart of New England,
perhaps, Massachusetts.
I don’t recall.
Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast,
tucked into a cove by the sea.
The place was surrounded by white houses
and engulfed in salty ocean mist.
The cedar paneling on the walls inside
breathed history
and the receptionist at the counter
was 1,000 years old, at least.
I’d get the key to our room
from the ancient lady
and I’d begin the journey
to the musty attic
on the third floor.
The stairs groaned and creaked
with every step I took
and my suitcase
thumped along behind me
in protest.
The halls were lined with
portrait paintings of previous owners.
Their faces all stared back at me
the only way they knew how to,
and I watched their still eyes,
fascinated.
A decade later,
my mother and I arrived at our room
and Mom jiggled the key in the lock
until the old oak door
broke free and swung open
to reveal our temporary home.
Mom would sigh in relief,
but I’d throw my luggage down
and spring into the old bed,
excitement pumping through my tiny body.
I’d lay surrounded by
a handmade quilt’s embrace,
and I could imagine
an elderly woman in a rocking chair
stitching each square together carefully
and cursing quietly
when the threading was not precise.
The thought made me giggle.
Even now, reminiscing,
I smile at the thought
of the old lady cursing.
I close my eyes and imagine
the old inn by the sea.
I can smell the cedar paneling
and taste the ocean air--
well, almost.
That was years ago.
Strange how time goes by
and memories become a mist around us,
reeled in only on a whim.
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