The Dirt Room, Or, Waiting for It to Pass

The phone buzzed, a wasp in my pocket,

and her face, Grandma's, a memory shot.

Her hand, tight, so very

tight on mine. The pull, down those steps,

uneven, into the earth's cool

smell of potatoes, a fear that just caught.

That heavy door, groaning,

then a thud, not quite a click.

It just settled. The single bulb, it swayed,

a bare, sad thing, casting shadows on jars.

A nervous tick against the stone.

And the quiet then. So thick.

Waiting for the wind to scream itself

out, I guess. Or for it to stop

trying to get in. Just sitting,

with the dust, the cold, that deep, old dread.

No peace, really. Just holding on

until the storm was finally shed.