White flashes of feathers
Salt teases the nostrils.
Spray flicks the rocks at my feet.
A deep-seated wooden chair
fills in for God’s arms
and the sea breeze
His caressing hand.
His comforting touch.
Grandma’s kitchen spun afternoon sunlight
off pastel blue walls
and white metal cabinets.
Newly cleaned glass windows broke
the lawn into four green squares
where stood the old dinner bell
used to call the men in from the fields
for the noonday meal.
Today, Grandma stood in front of the stove
stirring a pot of fresh blackberries
for our suppertime cobbler.
Steam rose and matted wisps of white hair
to her forehead, and her cotton dress
Skin draped from her thin arms as she leaned forward
to peer into a bubbling pot.
On the floor behind her stood a metal fan purring
as it swung from side to side pushing heat
around the room and out the hallway door.
The scent of biscuits baking rose from the oven
with the heat and swirled out the door
to mewing kittens outside the screened porch.
Bottles of amber gold freshly squeezed
from rows of honey bee boxes stood on
the formica-topped, metal-legged table.
The blue and white streaked linoleum floor felt
cool to my bare feet.
Grandma glanced at me and asked,
“Child, are you hungry?”
She smiled and said,
“I thought so. They don’t cook these kind of meals
in the city, do they?”
I sat on a stool and watched,
learning about cooking and patience and beauty.