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Aunt Thelma had been replaced
by Aunt Irma,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.
