My grandmother's wallpaper
  had patterns, like her pillows,
  scratchy and flowered, like
  a farm allergy.

 My grandmother's bookshelves
  had books by Ethel M. Dell, and
  E.M. Hull, along with 
  National Geographic
  Coffee table books,

 And I, at age five, wanted to
  read them all, under feeble
  table lamps by flowery wallpaper
  leaning on rough feeling pillows,
  because history should hurt
  a little bit to learn

  or we won't love it properly

 she sat in silence, staring at
  the walls of that small room

 how history unfolds, she thought,
  it's like a kind of puzzle

 an old clock ticking on the wall,
  a door into a hallway

 the future, once immense, become
  a focused bit of light among

  the dark