Old Wood

This was the early 2010s, I was nineteen or so.

Maybe sixteen. Who can say, a decade later?

I was still in high school or just out of high school,

and sorting diligently the books of the Carnegie library

I volunteered at for four years of thin meditations.

The bricks were as sturdy as anything I knew, then.

Finishing with the carts assigned to me that afternoon,

I climbed the magnificent staircase to the second floor,

my palm kissing the Edwardian oak of the balustrade,

the sun outside caressing the tall windows, the width

of the barrel-vault. Beyond the sloping, lopsided balcony,

in one of the side chambers: a gathering in situ,

eleven old men and women enjoying punch and cookies

while another elderly played guitar for them all.

They welcomed me into their midst out of politeness,

and I ignored the refreshments in return of the favor.

His beard was long and unkempt, his hat was a Stetson.

His seasoned fingers drew out the opening notes of

“Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” from the

convivial air---"I knew the song from a Dixieland Jazz cover

I'd bought off the iTunes store, on a whim, two weeks

beforehand. I danced a wide circle around all the guests,

humming and jiving to the breeze of his Nylon.

“You're too young to know this song!” one woman

admonished with a peal of laughter. “I like old music!”

I returned, grinning and buoyant. I stayed for the song,

and another beyond it, then begged my farewells,

and ambled back home to my life of something-or-other.

Huddling in my room, away from my stone siblings.

My mother serving chicken breasts boiled and unsalted.

Is this story impressive? If not, please feign so for me.

Author's Note

Published by The Queens Review, Spring 2025 Issue:
https://thequeensreview.org/old-wood-by-sean-eaton/
Full issue: https://thequeensreview.org/spring-2025-issue/