My grandmother’s memory
filled with fried chicken, milk gravy,
buttermilk biscuits, easy laughter,
always a lap to rock a tired child,
mountains of laundry to wash,
bushels of beans to shell, coconut cake
to take to an ailing neighbor.
She was overweight–mark of the family,
feisty, always an ache or pain to fuss
about, master gardener, teller of
stories our mother said weren’t fit for
our ears; my grandmother gave me a
feeling of being loved so deeply into
the soul that it mattered not the
shape of a person’s body or the
irregularities of their personality.
That love is still with me as I sip
tea from her cup and wonder if I have
ever made anyone feel so loved.