August 22: The Past, Mary Oliver, "An Old Whorehouse"

I've been thinking a lot tonight about childhood summers.  How those months seemed to last forever.  The long days, full of sun and insects and dirt.  The humid nights, full of cricket and distant stars.  June, July, and August were so full of freedom.  We could do anything we wanted.  Swim.  Ride our bikes up to the Holiday gas station on the highway to buy ice cream bars.  Dare each other to knock on the doors of girls' houses, just to see what they'd be wearing when they answered.

Mary Oliver has a great poem that captures this time of adolescent adventure.  When you're stuck between childhood and adulthood, trying to figure the world out.  It's one of my favorites.

Saint Marty is still trying to figure the world out.

An Old Whorehouse

by:  Mary Oliver

We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.

Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only

rainwater, and one
woman's black shoe.  Downstairs

spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.

A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,

and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,

or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.

It would be years before
we'd learn how effortlessly

sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.