Magdalena, on Truth Windows
I saw one first on Baca Lane
in a house built for a college friend
who moved here from the east--
a shuttered niche in an entrada
wall, framed in aged mesquite
—a way, the builder said,
for her new home to prove
its true adobe bones--
as though a house has anything
to prove except how well
it fits one’s life—keeps out rains
but not their sound, nests this sleigh
bed on that old Albadeh rug,
accommodates new pets or extra
guests, and provides a quiet
spot or two for private talks.
And that cedar shutter
in my hallway? It enclosed my Nana’s
secrets once—an iron key, and
(all in faded Spanish script)
an address on a Street of Baths
and book of recipes with names
like Cousin Lia’s Flat Cakes or
Sara’s Albondiga Soup.
Now it hides an ill-placed fuse box.
As life and Nana taught me well,
some truths are best kept hidden.
I saw one first on Baca Lane
in a house built for a college friend
who moved here from the east--
a shuttered niche in an entrada
wall, framed in aged mesquite
—a way, the builder said,
for her new home to prove
its true adobe bones--
as though a house has anything
to prove except how well
it fits one’s life—keeps out rains
but not their sound, nests this sleigh
bed on that old Albadeh rug,
accommodates new pets or extra
guests, and provides a quiet
spot or two for private talks.
And that cedar shutter
in my hallway? It enclosed my Nana’s
secrets once—an iron key, and
(all in faded Spanish script)
an address on a Street of Baths
and book of recipes with names
like Cousin Lia’s Flat Cakes or
Sara’s Albondiga Soup.
Now it hides an ill-placed fuse box.
As life and Nana taught me well,
some truths are best kept hidden.