Emma was my grandmother too,
tied through wedding vows to
her youngest grandson my one true love.
On her back porch, she held my
hands and sang ancient
nursery rhymes in German, her very
first tongue. The songs, her soft,
steady voice, called up hummingbirds
hovering just above
pots of lantana and marigolds.
Now what's left is a scrap of paper,
the whispy blue ink
turned brown, her recipe
for pecan pie. Each time I fold in
the butter, chop the
pecans, measure the light brown
sugar, same shade as the ink,
she holds my hands,
hums an old tune about the
little girl down the lane. My kitchen heats up.
Next thing I know, there are hummingbirds.
A slice of pie, a cup of coffee,
a language I don't know, but still it comes
to me. We hover there,
our tiny wings, our rapid hearts,
our solitary belief in sugar and pecans.


Copyright 2012 Kathi Appelt. All rights reserved.
Used here with permission.