access route

they blocked the access route.
neatly piled near the door,
under racks of old coats,
deals from yonder years,
all with a memory or two of preciseness about their price.

they blocked the access route.

there was a stool, sometimes I sat there.
sometimes I played that cassette tape
for what probably felt like hours,
wondering whether that little mirror..
why was there a mirror there?
would ever become that access route.

grandma’s birthday brings me back
to a time when ham was often served
to the picky picketarian
to the fresh jam often laden
on the picky one’s homemade bread.

I recall the conversations about criticism
about the rambles
as if they would assume that the void is full
when they are not around!
oh, how I recall the righteousness I felt
when those words blessed my ears.

I bet she would be proud.

I hope I make her proud.

short stories haven’t been my forté,
maybe because the blood line was well reserved
for one to be the composer
and others to be the producers
of volumes of other silly rambles,
like this one.

there is a strange, uncrossable gap
in the way the universe has arranged
these atoms
that blocks the access route to you.

I wonder if,
upon stumbling back into that world,
the one with real magic,
desires for greatness,
homeliness and charm,
I could get in once more
and really cherish it this time ’round.

grandma’s birthday often came and went
without much thought to its significance
on my part.

now, I will take this day
and make it my access route
to these memories.