Up the stairs, smell apples and pears,
Gramma’s in the barn now, so who cares?
I’ll scamper on up and check it out–
What is that gloomy room all about?
Missionaries are coming here to stay
And that just doesn’t happen every day.
So the shadowed room has been made clean
Any footprints I leave will not be seen.
My Gramma’s been busy and so the dust
is swept away and I know I must
be very careful not to leave
a trace of me or she won’t believe
I’ve been in the kitchen peeling spuds
and washing dishes in lots of suds.
I see as I peer through the low keyhole
on the washstand there, a pitcher and bowl.
Gramma’s gone now thirty years.
The bowl is fine, but I see through tears
the pitcher’s cheeks resemble mine,
blemished with hairline cracks–a sign
we’re beyond repair, we’ll never again
know that innocent time back when
the worst thing that happened was Gramma came back
and rewarded rebellion with a resolute smack
to the place on my person where it did the most good.
I promised her then that I never would
without permission go tripping upstairs
to the room that smelled of apples and pears.
How I cherish the pitcher and bowl!
They satisfy something deep in my soul
And always remind me of Gramma.