Old wooden window frames lined the walls
in the rambling two story farm house:
heavy sash windows allowed to raise
by solid lead weights, white woven chord,
stamped metal pulleys at the top of the sash.
Chords worn from years of sliding
over wheels that had long ago ceased to turn
would always snap when an open window
was the thing that seemed to matter the most.
The spring winds smelled of lilac,
washing out the stale smells and memories of winter,
and the best thing that we could do for mother
was to take apart the window frames,
free the pulleys and string new chord,
rub some wax in the sticky places,
and let the windows open again.
Copyright © Frank Kearns 2013