Grandma's Kitchen Table

The screen door squeaks and bangs shut. The kitchen counter wraps about the walls with the green Formica table centered in the room.  In the oven is a pork roast.  A pot of rice is on the stove top.  Sweet tea is brewing.  Grandma’s small water glass sits in the kitchen window, always within easy reach.  Grandma is humming “In the Sweet Bye and Bye”  while shelling peas.  She sits in a green office chair on wheels so that with a push she can collect a bottle from the refrigerator, then push again to glide to the sink and deposit a spoon.  It is a sensible, but playful pleasure.  I hear the windchimes tell me I am home.  I am young here where no words are needed.  No idleness tolerated, but never a rush.  The steady rhythm of life that lives in this marshy heat lulls me into a thin sleep, too warm for deep dreams.  Here are roots that secure me to my ancestry.  I know who I am, what is expected of me.  There is a clarity in Grandma’s presence.