Hobnobbing with the Philosophers: The Old Folks Place

Detail from “The School of Athens”
a fresco by Raphael (1483 – 1520)
[Click image to call up
all published instalments]

By Maik Strosahl

After 1915, a postcard made its way to many a mailbox in Russia. The picture was of a painting done by Isaak Brodsky titled “Fallen Leaves.”
    Isaak Brodsky was born of Jewish descent in what is now part of the Ukraine. One of his famous paintings, a portrait of Vladimir Lenin, actually bears an autograph by Lenin himself, as requested by the artist. The Russian leader is reported to have said, “I am signing to what I don’t agree with for the first time.”
    “Fallen Leaves” was painted in 1915 and came to my attention as a reproduction of one of those postcards that were mailed around the Russian landscape. It spoke of other abandoned homes I have enjoyed exploring, and I felt a story brewing inside that image, one that was asking me for words.
    Of course, I had to oblige.

The Old Folks Place

—inspired by the painting “Fallen Leaves” by Isaak Brodsky

Grampa sat in the doorway sun,
politicking with various opponents,
debating foreign affairs over checkers,
Washington high crimes through chess—
those scheming queens
and their lying bishops—
sometimes quarrels sent
pawns and pieces across the floor,
kings willing to give up the cross
before resignation.

Gramma cut beans at her door side post,
traded recipes with the gossip fencers,
churning news faster than
crochet needles clicking through
neighborhood affairs—
downtown scuttlebutt and
that whole scandal at the capitol.
Blankets started in October
reached the floor by Christmas,
were tucked under through February winds,
folded up at first sweat in March,
gifted to summer brides
left wondering at what they could do
with such an oversized comforter.

Most days,
their door was open
to both fallen leaves and visitors,
though Gramma reserved the right
to sweep both out at whim,
for quiet days where two
who could not remember
days before their union
could reflect on the children,
grand and great grand
crawling through then
blowing across the land.

She left first,
in early autumn.
He stared into the trees for hours,
willing her return as
green turned orange turned
brittle and brown—
a railing once firm
came loose and
took him down,
face first into the crunch of leaves,
never to rise again,
found by a friend
stopping in for a chat.

We each walked through,
one more time,
sharing our moments with each,
laughing,
but mostly crying
across the creaking floor.
And when we finished,
we left the door as they did—
still open to the passerby,
a welcoming to the rustled breeze.

Copyright © 2023 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there.