Hot from the old gas stove.
Smothering hugs,
Cuddled up in her bosom,
Watching Sylvester chase Tweetie
On the ancient black & white.
Simple dresses made by her own tender hands, checkered plaids and ginghams.
Mason jars stowed away for winter
The green beans and okra we picked by hand.
Laura Ingalls’ bonnets with scarlet bows
Kept away the scorching sun.
Silver triangle struck for six o’clock supper.
"What’s for dinner?" I asked.
"S.O.S." she replied.
I giggled.
Swinging on the porch at twilight,
My feet couldn’t touch the wooden slats.
Catching fireflies in the same jars
We used for canning
A voice whispers in the dark,
"Set them free so they can
Return another night."
Great-Grandma – she returned to me tonight.
***
I was catching fireflies with Blane last night and was reminded of this poem I wrote about my Great-Grandma Lathen one summer evening a few years ago. Isn't it amazing how the mind works through memories so dear to us? And how the simplest activities live on through generations?
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