On a sunny morning in late spring, I sit at Gramma's table. A warm blackberry breeze teases
the yellow gingham curtains. On the counter of the old enamel sink, berries and rhubarb
drain in a mesh colander—our pies for dinner. Gramma wears her checked apron. I watch her
dust the breadboard with flour. As she kneads the dough, she talks to me about her girlhood
in County Clare, even the bad things that happened. Sometimes she sings the songs her
mother taught her. When the dough is ready, she puts it in a bowl by the window, lays a cloth
over it and comes to the table.

I stir Ovaltine and Gramma pours coffee. I watch her put her face into the steam and I do the
same. We are best friends. I want to be just like her when I grow up. Later today, we will have
barmbrack. She'll bake the loaves in the wood stove. The kitchen already smells of lemon and
tea-soaked raisins from the sun. We keep talking and I listen to Gramma laugh. She likes to
laugh.

chasing butterflies
on the Burren
she might see faeries

On other mornings, Gramma puts me in charge of the toaster. She says it is the old-fashioned
kind with doors. She teaches me how to turn the bread without burning myself. It's very
tricky but Gramma said that I'm old enough. Next year I'll be in kindergarten. (I'm pretty sure
I'm her favorite.)

Today in my own kitchen, I open the curtains. It's a sunny morning in late spring with a warm
breeze through the window. I'm happy. It will always be so on a fine morning like this. I close
my eyes and see her, hear her laugh, smell the yeast rising, and know that somewhere a
grandmother is showing another small girl how to find and taste joy.

from the monarda
    a bumble bee buzz
        grandpa in the raspberries


This poem first appeared on drifting-sands-haibun.org (April, 2020).
Used here with permission.