My grandmother’s long fingers graceful,
knife shining in the morning light
as she spread butter on the thick,
warm sourdough. She could make
the most beautiful breakfast.

A coddled egg neatly cracked, steaming
in a cup. Salt. Pepper. Fresh-squeezed
orange juice in a tall glass like a cocktail.
Ripe raspberries in a bone-white bowl.
Folded linen napkins.

The kitchen glowed with her gentleness,
Southern stories. The food rich as cake
in my small mouth, her sweetness like candy.
Now, sometimes when a butter knife catches
the light, I am still filled with all of it decades later.


© by Fredric Hildebrand.
Used with the author’s permission.