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EPITAPH FOR KELLS GARDENS: IN MEDIAS RES

EPITAPH FOR KELLS GARDENS: IN MEDIAS RES

Aeneas walked through that door almost
daily, for twenty-two years, or more. Two
locks now keep another family safe;
ruby-red curtains are no longer drawn after
nights at Aunty Kathleen's; trees project on
opaque panels, like slides, from lampposts
in dusk; and the porch light: an angel never
noticed. Aeneas leaves every memory:
Anchises and Venus, still in love, drinking
Chianti and Gavi, smoking Silk Cut
cigarettes, cooking roast dinners on Sunday
afternoons to James Taylor; hat dining
room: the Sacred Heart statue, the broken
cuckoo clock bought in Interlaken;
grandchildren with grandparents watched
parents party on wine-stained wood
…years later, they don't sing Dancing in
the Moonlight, those grandparents are gone,
and each grandchild is Paris becoming
Priam. Aeneas wanders Troy troubled by
nostalgia: adolescent sorrow, bad
girlfriends; happiest for sleepovers,
Pokémon, and football down the lane.
Aeneas knew the creek of each hinge like
his bones, the weight of the wood like his
muscle, the wallpaper like his skin. For the
final time, Aeneas closed that door, the
sound of it shutting like never before; walls
naked, stripped of photographs, losing the
echoes of all the laughs, quarrels, and songs
snapping into silence as Aeneas turned to
Troy with tear-filled eyes, saying sad
goodbyes on that sunless day in July.