Harriette W. Conroy
1917-1986
in loving memory


This page is a tribute to my grandmother
who died of cancer when I was eleven.
Most of my childhood memories
center around going to her house on Sundays
and spending time as family, all of us, united.

My grandmother used to write poetry. Unlike me,
however, she did rhyme. She used to make us
homemade cards, cutting out pictures
from magazines of things we liked, and creating a poem about it.
I always liked those cards better than store-bought ones,
because they were made with love.
She worked for the town weekly
(what is now Detroit's Macomb Daily ) as a columnist.
I wish to someday follow in her footsteps
and become a reporter.

This poem has been sitting in my mind for a few weeks now,
and recently, while at my boyfriend's house, I sat down and
wrote it. I wanted to capture
my childhood memories and hold them, so I could always look back at them,
and I wanted to share them with my readers.
So, sit back, and take a trip back in time with me
to Roseville, Michigan, in 1986.


Rose Street 1986


I remember the little house on Rose Street

We visited every Sunday
after the 11:00 church service
our family would unite there
for one special day
of togetherness and memories.

It was the little house
where my father grew up,
with the many pictures scattered
on the hallway walls
all holding family memories
frozen in time, documented
for everyone to see
how we've grown
and become beautiful
on our journey to adulthood.

Grandpa said you were a writer
sixteen years old, a columnist
for the town weekly.
When he left to fight in WWII
you wrote him 10 pages every day
he tucked them inside his uniform pocket
close to his heart
for the three years of your separation.
Your young love
stayed alive & strong
until his victorious
return home to you.

I remember as a child
wandering into your bedroom
off in the back of the house,
bathed in pink, your favorite color--
the bed was huge and very comfy
I used to wonder why it was so tall.

Every Sunday night before we left your home,
you bowed your head in prayer.
Once I asked you why.
You said you were asking God
to watch over us
during our trip home.

You spent many days there,
in that house,
sick and in endless pain--
it was your last wish to return there.

I was only eleven but I remember
shadowed nights in the hospital
staring at sterile walls
wondering
how long you were going to be with us
how I would miss you
and wishing that you could stay
just a little while longer.

The disease ravaged your frail body
rendered you weak; half-crazy on painkillers
you never quite knew where you were
you used to see things, too--
things that weren't real.

It was sad to see you like that,
a shadow, a shell,
the light robbed from your eyes.

One quiet night
Mom came into my room
and woke me up.

She said you had taken three last breaths
and went to God, to a place without pain.
You were free now.

Rose Street, how I want to go back there;
rewind to the time when you were still with us--

(Grandpa sold the house,
and remarried
but he never forgot you.
Eighty-five years old,
he still speaks of you--
your youth together, your childhood romance,
and those letters--

The house is now painted an ugly brown color
and there are houses built in the field across
the street, where we spent many summers playing
carefree and alive amongst stopped time,
frozen in childhood.

Dad paints cars and I write poetry, like
you used to. I still believe that part
of you lives in on with me, in my words
and my ink-penned thoughts.

The family is no longer united;
We have lost contact with my aunt and our cousins.)

Following the hearse, we watched it stop
for five long minutes
in front of the little house on Rose Street
that was your home, your heart, your life
our family's gathering place
for so many years.
You can take one last look
before peacefully resting
above us,
watching us grow & change.

Time moves onward,
but memories keep it frozen
so we can always go back
and take a look around.

In our hearts and in our minds,
we will always remember you.

And the little house on Rose Street,
where those memories still live in every corner--


(In loving memory of Harriette Conroy, my grandmother, who
died when I was 11, but will always live in my heart.)

Copyright 1999-2000 by Erin D. Conroy. All rights reserved.