If you grew up in a house that was decorated in the early 1970s
And never got redone, you may recall
A living room with a deep blue green shag carpet
And tan jungle print curtains,
The carpet’s pile so thick
You could sink your four-year-old pinky in
Right up to your knuckle.
Or the smooth green-black geometric jeweled carpet
Of the dining room that camouflaged
The scattered shriveled peas
That were forever by your corner of the table.
Or the shimmering lime green dining room wallpaper,
With satin curtains to match;
Or the blooming blue green cabbage flowers
In the kitchen with green gingham curtains
Or the orderly birds of the wallpaper
In your father’s study, with the sheer tweed curtains
And the temperamental window shades.
You may recall pulling out the jumbo-sized pillows:
The one with a turquoise navy leaf theme that you always preferred,
And the other a series of orange, pink and mustard concentric circles:
How often you laid your face in them
During sleep overs and Saturday morning cartoons
Or the shining blue wallpaper
Of the entry hallway with the velvet white roses
That every new visitor commented on
As he or she ran her fingers over the raised texture.
Such things seemed normal:
The light blue/baby blue dinner plate circles
On the wallpaper in your first bedroom
Is the only childhood bedroom you’ll ever remember,
While across the hall the bold zigzags
Of the orange, gold and brown wallpaper
In the junk room made it forever known as “The Aztec Room.”
And you never considered that naming a room like that
Would be a unique mark of your particular family, as unique
As your parents naming your brother John Muir
And then calling him that full name, John Muir, for years
And how that name, like so much else,
Became, for your brother, a cross for him to bear
Because hardly anyone on the East Coast
Remembered who John Muir was,
Let alone preschoolers and most of their teachers.
Your parents had neither time nor interest
In redecorating your home: The strawberry wallpaper
In the upstairs bathroom remained until mold bloomed on it.
Their orange, brown, yellow and red shag carpet
In their bedroom with the beige botanical wallpaper
And burnt sienna see-through curtains
Remained until they sold the house —
It was only in the last month that they pulled the carpet
To reveal a beautiful hardwood floor underneath.
“If only we had pulled it sooner,
We could have slept better for years”
Your mother may have remarked,
Since dust had settled and remained
In most parts of your house for decades.
You may also be aware
That you are the only person on earth
Who carries that particular longing to climb again the wooden,
Blue-grey paint chipped steps of the front porch,
To open the door and hear your mother’s sleigh bells,
Tied to the other side, jingle
Or to walk straight back and find the key
To the old barn hanging on a square of scrap wood
By the back door, and see again the cowbell
Your Mother would ring in the evenings
Calling you and your brother home for supper.
