Their Room, by Nancy Sobanik

Her Room, by Andrew Wyeth (USA) 1963

Their Room
 
Some would call it bland, the plain weathered door,
but I recall how his gnarled hands planed the curling
strips of oak as it lay across sawhorses, how he joined
and hung the sanded boards on mortised hinges,
snugged pins in hinge-holes to help
the door swing free of creaks.
 
Inside, the table is elbow-scuffed to a dull brown,
adorned only by a conch whose geometry
invites me to cup then press it
 
against the echo-chamber of my ear.
Fifty years later I can't resist lifting it--
and strain to hear their voices, too,
 
though both are gone decades now. Memories
hazed, like once beige walls aged to taupe,
neither brown nor gray. Here, contrast is subtle
 
in faded curtains of pale pink taffeta
that grandmother stitched by lamplight,
hung to hurry along springtime.
 
The blizzard left windows trousered with snow
so deep the door had to be taken off to dig out.
Someone left the door open today,
 
and light burnishes the old wood like laughter,
like the whispering whoosh in the conch,
and the soft touch of the silent door closing.
 
Nancy Sobanik
 
Nancy Sobanik is a Registered Nurse who started writing in 2020, and is learning poetics through workshops, study and the feedback of generous poet friends. She was awarded second place in the Belfast Maine Postmark Poetry Contest 2023, and is currently a 2024 finalist. Her poems can be found in Sparks of Calliope- Best of The Net Nominee 2023 and Pushcart Nomination 2024, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Sheila-Na-Gig. Maine is her playground and home.