beyond the plants and linens

at 80 years old, my grandmother’s bathroom

has become a spa—clawfoot tub, gilded mirrors,

plants and crystals strewn about in a stark contrast

to the plain bathroom i remember

as a young girl, but what hasn’t changed is the world

in her linen closet. snooping and sneaking

i’d found the door and the stairs and the clothes up above

an attic to play in with treasures too old

for little hands to touch—she knew

my soul was drawn to what was hers upstairs,

what was my mom’s and my aunt’s and the other gems

beneath worn dresses and aged nutcrackers. a world

now nestled behind plants as her spa

has taken over, but the mystery of the bathroom closet

still lurks behind the door, up creaking floorboards,

and into a space i know is worth more

than i could comprehend all those years ago.