Maureen McDole     St. Petersburg      (Tyler Gillespie)
My Grandmother’s Curtains 

Pink sheer curtains swelled in the girls’ 
room when my mother was growing up. 
She shared the pink shades with her sisters. 
When I spent nights in that room, those curtains’ 
shadows scared me away from sleep. 
A framed felt picture loomed over the hallway 
that led to the bathroom: a group of dogs playing poker. 
I swear they stared at me until I shut the door. 
The walk-in closet was a meeting place for ghosts. 
It wasn’t safe to sleep with two eyes closed.
As an adult, I claimed the pink curtains 
when my grandmother passed and the house sold. 
I hung them in my bedroom and learned to love 
the color they bred with the light. My once lover
named it Womb Room, a place I reclaimed.
​

​