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
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.
oh…what love is nestled in these words. To Grandma Ruth! ❤