Bundled Away by Barbara Glover

My childhood cottage, whose façade was prefabricated,

Whose cost was cheap and rushed,

Whose construction my brother and I witnessed,

Whose foundation was dug with a big steam shovel

Whose blocks were laid by three men who swore a lot,

Whose piles of sand we played and drove our toy trucks on,

Whose framing went up, sprouting like a young forest.

My childhood cottage was not by a lake, but rather

A flat piece of land my disabled father could walk,

Whose periphery was surrounded by trees and more trees, thick and dense with trees,

Whose porch I crawled under once to find the cat, who ate a chipmunk,

Whose backyard we built a tree fort in,

Whose land my brother and I weaved paths on, with axe and rake,

Whose backyard had a hill,

Whose hill we sledded on in winter, flying down on saucers, snow spraying,

Whose property ended on a trail made by many deer.

My childhood cottage was furnished with my grandma’s furniture,

Whose great old table we played multi-hands of Solitaire on,

Whose kitchen my dad cooked chili in and burnt grilled cheese,

Whose kitchen my mom canned jam in,

Whose inside back porch I read novels in and watched the rain pitter patter on the panes,

Whose back deck the rowboat was chained to in winter, covered in snow,

Whose TV reception was only three channels, in black and white, later color,

Whose TV I awoke early to watch Princess Diana marry on,

Whose chair I curled up in to read Harlequin romances or to cross stitch.

My childhood cottage where I had my first kiss on the porch,

Whose yard my dog Bonnie loved to romp in,

Whose driveway I parked my motorcycle on,

Whose mailbox I searched for letters from foreign pen pals in.

My childhood cottage where I dreamed and grew and blossomed.
 My childhood cottage is no more; except bundled away in my memories.