It wasn’t much as kitchens go,
a small well loved room
right in the middle of the traffic
from the outside world into the rest of the house.
Grandmother is standing there.
Her face sparkles from the light
of the small high window.
Her big, strong hands stack
clean, blue Mason jars on the drainboard.
Grandmother hums a song.
A flowered apron is
tied around her thick body
and over her broad shoulders.
She is sturdy and dependable.
Grandmother can do anything.
Her strong arms carried her six babies,
bounty from the garden, loaves of homemade bread
and steaming platters of countless meals
for over fifty years.
Grandmother always smells good.
I watch her big feet
with the swollen ankles
inside her clumping black shoes
with her workday cotton stockings.
Grandmother is beautiful.
Now she sets the blue china cup
on the scarred chopping block counter.
“Here’s the sugar too, Sugar,” she laughs.
We are having tea time.
Grandmother is a lady, too.
Perched on our stools
at the drop leaf table
beside the cluttered mudroom,
we are jammed in the corner.
Grandmother makes special places.
She holds me up to the window
to see the birds at the feeder.
I am standing on the edge of the old sink,
leaning against her broad bosom.
Grandmother loves the animals.
She does not move
She is strong and soft and safe.
I can stand on the edge of the sink
against my Grandmother and
she is unmovable.
In the small room
of my heart of hearts,
that well loved room
in the middle of all of the traffic,
Grandmother is still there.
It’s not much
It’s just enough
It will never go
It is full of love
And Grandmother, still.©
By Margie Smella