I stand at my kitchen sink,
pause as potato peel curls
into blue glass bowl. Onion
sautees in my grandma's
battered stew pot. Bay leaf,
browning beef, scent house
with hope, continuity, home.
Black Caleb, ancient now, seems
just a blink from frozen kitten
mewing on porch deck replaced.
Pine cone tumbles with thump from
towering tree I still see as six inch sapling
in a paper cup, gift from Christmas Tree
recycling center your eighth grade year.
Your daughter could be me or you,
shines in eighth grade now, same school.
Mystery is how generations fold into mix
of memory, family. Recipe repeats turn
dial on time machine, kitchen sink.
November 3, 2010
Victoria HendricksNovember 3, 2010