the house on farnsworth

Purchased fifty years ago, the
house where my mother grew up
is still shield by waist-high
juniper. Now it is under the
flight plans of Oakland International;
once an hour the house quivers down
to its foundation. The dingy lace
curtains in the kitchen have been
replaced by frills and cotton and
splashes of cornflower blue. Grandma's
moaning fridge was unstuffed to make
room for a white shiny, showroom model.
No more bubbled-over oatmeal on the
rangetop; the last burnt rolls have been
pulled from the stove. Everything in the
kitchen, in fact, is the color of moonlight.
The house awaits a new tenant; it aches
for my grandmother to come home. Never has
something odorless held such a strong smell.