The smell of onions and eggs,
smoke of a campfire,
a deep breakfast for strangers
at the campground,
also making their way across the world.
Their camper was better than ours.
I saw Grandma,
tilting her head,
her eyes with that light that said,
I have to know.
She was a child of her times.
And they were "exotic,"
eating soup for breakfast,
what on earth was that about?
I was packing changing to swim clothes,
my mother was packing up.
We didn't notice she was gone.
Until we heard a laugh.
And she was next door,
tasting the soup.
Sharing our Pop Tarts,
and leaning shoulder to shoulder
with the grandmother there.
They spoke no English.
She spoke nothing else.
But somehow,
the grandmothers' photos were being shared.
Along with onions, and eggs,
and the smoke of the campfire.