Photo by Nathan Bang
Patchwork
M. K. Greer
My grandmother is a quilt
slung across the back of my sofa.
Patches of faded memories,
stitched together with thinning thread.
I was never a good daughter in the kitchen,
but on Thursdays, we would bake
and I’d peek from the doorway
to watch my grandmother knead the dough.
She was a specter amidst a cloud of flour,
her hands moved like a pendulum–
a grandmother clock keeping the cadence of time
with each push and pull and fold.
When the rolls were in the oven,
I’d follow her into the den
to snuggle onto her lap and wait
for the sweet smell of rising rolls.
She would light up a Virginia Slim
and read me Shel Silverstein.
Each wisp of smoke that slipped from her lips
another leaf–another branch–given away.
On cold nights,
I wrap her patchwork body around me
and breathe in the scent of browning buns
and secondhand smoke.
They say that scent is the strongest memory,
and sometimes I wonder how long
I can hold onto the feeling
of the shape of her body,
curled around mine.
M. K. Greer
My grandmother is a quilt
slung across the back of my sofa.
Patches of faded memories,
stitched together with thinning thread.
I was never a good daughter in the kitchen,
but on Thursdays, we would bake
and I’d peek from the doorway
to watch my grandmother knead the dough.
She was a specter amidst a cloud of flour,
her hands moved like a pendulum–
a grandmother clock keeping the cadence of time
with each push and pull and fold.
When the rolls were in the oven,
I’d follow her into the den
to snuggle onto her lap and wait
for the sweet smell of rising rolls.
She would light up a Virginia Slim
and read me Shel Silverstein.
Each wisp of smoke that slipped from her lips
another leaf–another branch–given away.
On cold nights,
I wrap her patchwork body around me
and breathe in the scent of browning buns
and secondhand smoke.
They say that scent is the strongest memory,
and sometimes I wonder how long
I can hold onto the feeling
of the shape of her body,
curled around mine.