poetry ~ herbed flour

At Grandma’s
Herbed flour on the stove.
Nostalgia’s memories grow dim
She used to fuss about us kids when
           we came over
You’d think she had none of her own
Oh, but then, they’d already grown and moved away

Since I could remember,
            she had bursitis
            varicose veins
and that herbed flour on the stove smell
in the house
and she was all Ours


Happy Day
Herbed flour on the stove
I gave her her name by mis-stating
The name of an observation
when I was three
Happy Day

She collected salt and pepper shaker sets
Whole china cabinets would fill with them
Money, she’d hide through the house as well
           I remember father telling of how much
           They’d found – years later – after granddad died
When they too the place apart

It kept the herbed flour smell around.

But those last months were the hardest
Kept to a bed with tubes and tumor.
           For awhile she ate what she pleased;
           Lasagna, spaghetti, stuffed duck…
Herbed flour from the stove.
Until too late … and she was gone

No more flour on the stove.