Ruth

This isn’t about the silver-flecked formica 
table or the red hot cinnamon Santa eyes 
or the fresh-ground nutmeg scent 
or the dough up to her elbows. 

It’s not about the orange in the stocking’s 
toe or the silver dollars or the bunk beds or 
the knitted toilet paper holder lady with the 
crooked smile or the too-many cousins, scrabbling for 

space. 

There was a place on the porch where we waited 
for Grandpa to come home, walking down the 
railroad tracks in his big work boots, his 
metal lunch box swinging.  

There was her favorite seat on the bus 
when she took me “Downtown,” and tiny 
porcelain animals stuck fast to their paper 
nests. She was the best 

, most patient baker I ever met. Her cookies 
are a legacy and she didn’t drive until she was 
65. But she raised 7 boys, only 3 of whom were blood. 
1 died in Nam. 
1 is my Dad. 
And as far as legacies go, that’s not too bad. 

::

In November, we poem.

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