Whispers of History

 By Steven Wade Veatch

I find a quiet place in the museum gallery,
away from the footsteps of visitors
to think about the past and the passing of time.
 
The world, as it once existed, is gone,
though traces of it are here.
All I can do now is wonder
and open my imagination to recreate a world
I will never experience but begin to see.
 
I look at the artifacts of people who lived
in those long-ago times and wonder what happened to them.
Everything here is a memento mori for me.
 
Although the people no longer live,
their artifacts still exist.
I feel their past by proxy.
It is my chance to know them.
They have something more to say,
and I am listening.

Artifact at the Museum

By Steven Wade Veatch

The black porcelain pie bird 
postures, fades, and then evokes
my great-grandmother Daisy.
She taps on the door 
of my memory.

Adrift in thought and time,
I let her in. I hear her voice. I listen 
with my eyes closed as she meanders 
through my thoughts and fills my heart.

I remember: She wore a print farm dress 
and baked pies for my dad.
He liked two kinds: hot or cold.
I forget: What it was like when she held
me in her arms.

Our time together escaped, 
like steam venting through 
the pie bird’s yellow beak.
Those hours are gone,
moments overlooked,
time lost.

These days cannot compare
to her time of promises
and delights.
I smile.

No amount of poetry 
can bring us back together again—
but the pie bird did.

Pie bird at the Benzie Area Historical 
Society Museum in Benzonia.

At the Museum

 

". . .  our artifacts tell more about ourselves than our confessions."—Joseph Brodsky

By Steven Wade Veatch

 

Time stops here: A hallowed place to sense
past struggles, hardships, and joys. Objects—
removed from the flow of time, life’s moments
pinned on a wall, artifacts put in a mahogany case,
and exhibits built under spotlights for inspection—
now belong only to themselves, preserved.
In their presence, I hear them speak, as I step into history.
 
While I look at the yellow kitchen on display,
and the cabinet where your crystal glass
sparkles with its warm nostalgic spell,
I think about your life, loves, and sorrows.
Did someone bring you red roses?
 
I will never see the sky like you did, but I feel your world.
As I consider your generation, I remember my time,
and find truth about myself—that as I spend my days,
I must consider what I leave behind.
 

Published first in the Betsie Current November 3, 2022

 

The Benzie Area Historical Museum
in Benzonia, MI. Photo by Andy Bolander.