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The Cellar

Growing up years,

when my sister

had to go down to our cellar,

she’d have me go with her.

I’d roll my eyes and go down there

with my naive notion

that all the creaks, thumps,

and whines were explainable.

No ghosts. No boogey men. No wild animals

slipping down the concrete block steps

into that dark, dank, musty place

where the water pump whirred and rapidly chugged

and the furnace roared,

and a large pile of coal waited to be burned.

I’d pull the chain to the single light bulb to see

walls lined with lots of shelves holding jars

of jams and jellies, pickles, potatoes,

spiced apples, green beans, and tomatoes,

and a bin where I’d almost fall in

trying to retrieve seven spuds.

A big freezer filled with fish, (bass and trout mostly),

and deer meat. We didn’t call it venison.

A Santa cup sat on a shelf.

Why it was down there and not

with the other Christmas things in the attic,

I’ll never know.

Beyond that

underneath the porch

a dark room loomed.

A storage room

filled with who-knows-what.

Even as brave as I was then,

I left it to hold its treasures.