38 Lower Buckingham Street
by Joan Byrne
My mind is wandering through Stable Lane
then around by the creamery
to Masey’s house for bananas
with the top off the milk
Dark stairs entice me down
to her wondrous kitchen
a giant pink conical shell
glistens on her wide windowsill
The old gas cooker with a stew
always bubbling
long scarred table laid with newspapers
ironing on one end
milk and butter on the other
She will allow me into the sitting room
to tinkle on her piano “Rooney Dooney”
bathed by the tasselled shade of the
curly standard lamp
inhaling lavendered furniture
Remembering her long grey hair
revealed unexpectedly
when she changed hats for Mass
Her scathing wit
Her elitist forward thinking
My Masey
My Father’s mother
Me