“There’s a secret passageway in grandma’s old room,”
said my same older sister
who once whispered to us tales of ancestors
who came not from the poor pig farmers
on daddy’s family tree
but instead born of a long forgotten prince
who gave up his rich palace for love
leading him to settle on Carolina shores.
Like those quickly disproved fairy tales she weaved
my heart leaped with wonder on this story
imagining my own private wardrobe door
with which I could transport to a world of magic wonder,
my own personal Narnia.
I searched under bed, in closet, and by every wall crease
for light from this secret pathway
until, frustrated with my efforts,
daddy showed us the door which lay
high atop the closet’s ceiling
popping our shimmering bubble of childlike dreaminess
with his ever brooding realism
“There ain’t nothing up there but insulation.
It leads nowhere but the attic”.
It took years to realize,
though her facts were off,
my sister’s promise was true:
all along I carried such a door with me,
my own personal transport to new worlds.
I found it on that day my world split open
when tumbling I like Dorothy fell through the rabbit hole
my eyesight gazing deep within.
The well to wonder that opened
to places bigger on the inside
and more full of light
was the shape of the spiderweb of cracks
which had spread
across the shattered glass of a broken heart.
Truly broken places
birthed the light of beauty
beckoning me within
where I discover daily
vistas of glory unimaginable.