Memory by Anthony Hecht

Memory

 

Sepia oval portraits of the family,

Black-framed, adorned the small brown-papered hall,

But the parlor was kept unused, never disturbed.

Under a glass bell, the dried hydrangeas

Had bleached to the hue of ancient newspaper,

Though once, someone affirmed, they had been pink.

Pink still were the shiny curling orifices

Of matching seashells stationed on the mantel

With mated, spiked, wrought-iron candlesticks.

The room contained a tufted ottoman,

A large elephant-foot umbrella stand

With two malacca canes, and two peacock

Tail-feathers sprouting from a small-necked vase.

On a teak side table lay, side by side,

A Bible and a magnifying glass.

Green velvet drapes kept the room dark and airless

Until on sunny days toward midsummer

The brass andirons caught a shaft of light

For twenty minutes in late afternoon

In a radiance dimly akin to happiness—

The dusty gleam of temporary wealth.