The Secretary

Tall and silent.
My grandmother’s secretary desk. 
Scratches and nicks attest to years of use.
They appear as badges of honor while the secretary
maintains its sentry over the volumes placed lovingly on the
worn, wooden shelves behind the beveled glass
doors.

Streams of afternoon sun pierce through the lace curtains.
A soft summer breeze persuades the curtains to dance ever so slightly.
The old cat sleeps, undisturbed by the youthful kitten pouncing at
the changing patterns of light on the floor.

The secretary stood with a regal air
in my mother’s home for most of my childhood years.
My mother was passed the duty of caretaker.
when her aging mother reluctantly gave up housekeeping
and divided her belongings among family and friends.

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