Thelma, Then Irma

by Brett Rutherford

An old house it was,
brimful of overstuffed
sofas, side chairs
and love-seats.

When we came in,

boys of ten years and six,

Aunt Thelma leaped

into action. A drawer

flashed open, and white

embroidered doilies

flew onto every place

a child might sit.

"Wait! Wait!" she cried.

"No dirty necks allowed

against the sofa,

no dirty elbows

on the arms of chairs!"

We had to wait until

every surface was covered.

She flitted nervously

throughout our visit,

edging each vase away

from table edge,

a towel draped

over her thin arm

in case of spills.

Nervous she remained,

and nervouser still,

until they took her away

to Torrance, that place

they whispered about,

where the walls were doilies.

On our next visit,

Aunt Thelma had been replaced

by Aunt Irma,

her cousin whom one took to be

Irma's identical twin.

Uncle Ron was a cipher.

No word was said, nor questions

asked, about the prior Mrs.

The house was the same,

with every doily left

exactly as Thelma wanted them.

I swear the same

chrysanthemums

stood upright in the same

glass vase pushed back

so that no passing elbow

could dislodge it.

As we walked in, she rose,

and running to bar us,

Aunt Irma shrieked,

"No dirty necks allowed

on the white doilies!

No dirty elbows either!"

Barred from sitting,

we played on the porch,

ran off to a movie,

ate in the kitchen,

then slept on beds

whose crisp sheets crinkled

over some waterproof,

germ-free mattress.

Leaving, we trailed past

the doilies, the

never-changing

doilies, necks proudly

unwashed.