Attic Fan

by Tim Dunn

Grandmother's lies boxed now,
angled into an attic nook.
She led me to it one day.
Beams, thick and splintered,
shelter my inheritance.
Pictures drift back, silent first,
then the sound of fans,
familiar breathing.
In summer the gray drapes dance
and float like ghosts.
A hassock (nicknamed "the electric
chair") sat in her room
stirring the soupy air.
My sister sits playing jacks
and singing:
"bounce the earth; toss the stars;
we are Venus, Luna, Mars."
Her pale dress pleats the breeze
like one of those painted Japanese
numbers she'd move by her face
so gently.

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