A memory of childhood............

Her plump, hard working hands
plunged into the bowl of minced meat,
kneading and blending
with egg and a dash of salt.

That's how, she'd teach me -
me fascinated with the goo,
feeling loved and cherished
enjoying conversation.

We'd talk of the good old days, her childhood,
my grandmother and her sisters.
We'd talk of things in newspapers,
things that worried us.

The humid warmth of the kitchen,
its infusion of smells and spices,
hot water boiling, steam rising,
sticky hands making sweet, succulent dishes.

There was a large wooden table
where we'd read or eat or draw.
I don't have one anymore
but my memories linger.

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!