We climbed down steps narrow as the rungs
on his orchard ladder: Grandpa leading
with the lantern, me clutching the belt loops
of his wool tweed pants, down into darkness
thick as the molasses he spooned on his cereal.
Spiders scurried as the cellar pulsed with shadows,
their webs clinging to my hair like tiny veils.
Jars of sage honey, apricots and peaches floating
in syrup lined the rough splintered shelves.
Grandpa scooped wheat kernels from a wooden bin,
poured them into the grinder that gleamed
like the silver lady on the hood of his black Packard.
He lifted potatoes, beets, rutabagas,
from storage in the loose soil. the underpinnings of the house
dirt stretched out in every direction.
I wanted to bolt for Grandma's sunny kitchen
but stayed, fear rising like a flight of stairs
I could not see to the top of.
Years later, after he put the gun to his head
I remembered how comfortable he was in darkness,
wrapping himself up in it like a well-worn sweater,
teaching me to find my way through it,
trusting a light which did not yet reach me.