Sunday, March 13, 2011

Our Story

I awoke
To the smell of cinnamon.

The smell filled my room
And enticed me out
From my warm cocoon.
Pulling me,
Tugging me into the kitchen.

There she stood,
Grammy Mammie,
Aka, Daddy's Mommy.

A generous woman,
Both in size
And disposition,
And at that moment
She was peeling apples.

Without a word
From her,
Nor myself,
I sat down
And started to cut the apples.

Today was going to be a great day!
We were going to cook!
Now cooking with Grammy Mammie
Was not like cooking with anyone else.

Grammy Mammie would tell a story.
In this same kitchen,
I've heard stories
Of elves conquering giants,
Of princes rejecting princesses
For common farm girls,
Of apples who wedded bananas
And had oranges for children,
Of how Grammy Mammie
Met Papa Jones.

So I sat there,
Dutifully cutting those apples,
Waiting patiently
For Grammy Mammie to turn to me
And ask
"Did I ever tell you....?"
I would say no,
Trying to act cool and uninterested.
To this she would say,
"Well, then,
Let me tell you a story."

As I got older,
I spent less and less time
With my beloved grandmother.
And when we did cook together,
She would forget the recipe,
Or forget that she already told me that story,
Eventually, she forgot who I was.

Grammy Mammie was then put in a home,
And while others found it hard
To see her this way,
I still saw her
As the woman in the kitchen
Who would dip the spoon
In a spicy broth
And give me the first taste.

I would sit with her
In the park watching
A family of ducks swim in the pond
And I would ask her,
"Did I ever tell you......?
She would say no
And to this I would say,
"Well then, let me tell you a story."

And in that park,
I would tell her a story
Of a little girl
Who would cook with her grandmother.

Let me tell you our story.

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