Washing the Woodwork

Many times I empty
the powder gray water,
renew a puddle of soap
at the base of the bowl
and run it under the tap,
watching a cap of suds
rise inches above the rim.

In places the dust piles
or sticks like a stain,
especially near the square
of latticed vent which blew
warmth up our pant legs
and ballooned our shirts
in extravagant coziness
under high, chill ceilings.
If we weren't careful,
the old wallpaper left skids
of white powder on our backs.

I work the rag over rolls and grooves,
trace simple petal lines and
the serrated crowns above door frames.
So many doorways--
three in the tiny square entry
(leaving a wall for the stained glass window),
six in the living room,
five in the kitchen--
though not all open.

It is familiar, this smell of soap and dust
and empty room, like when we moved in.
Nineteen years of life and death
and we are moving out--
like the man who lay in state in the round room,
like the woman who baked him a pie
(every day!),
like the little boy who came back old (eighty)
to see his grandparents' house
and the place they kept the cookie jar.

There are more doors here
than I can number;
memories thicker than dust,
more tender than
the hang nail on my thumb
against the rag and the water.