a room that smelled like whiskey and dried roses

This room holds secrets. Cupboards so deep that me and my sister could hide on Sunday school days. A door to the basement, always locked, a gate to my grandfather's workshop- a barrier for monster sounds and 3 AM poker night antics. My fingers slide along corduroy groove lines on the couch back. Forward one shade, reverse reveals another. Summer songs about shelling peas and the neighbour's cat shitting in the potato garden seem to find my ear. Get that damn cat- cholernego kota is what I hear. I am leaning atop my grandfather's empty chair. This corner of the room is where Santa sat. My cousins hid behind the tv. My mom cried after the tornado destroyed the garden. Where my grandfather slumped when he couldn't take one more day of chemo. My hand comes away scented with sage and soil, whiskey and roses- memory and loss. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next- a decision has to be made about keeping dried flowers and the worn furniture.