Do you agree that places hold memories? That the past lives still in these rooms? I do. It's when you go to a house and you can feel it's soul, its history.
This part of the poem speaks to me of being uncomfortable because one wants to go back to the past. When a traumatic event happens to us, we often wish we could still be that person in the photos from our past.
And so it is for Philomela, who, after being raped and having her tongue cut out, must have wished that she could still be the innocent girl she was before. This photos was in my stash. It is out of focus. On the back, a woman describes her new porch. As you can see, the image now has an opening and red strings (the thread of the past if you will) are seeping into the present.
And if you open the door, who is there? Young Philomela with flowers in her hair.
The past is with us always, it does not do well to sweep it under the rug. Better to deal with those demons head on.