Where are her cinnamon buns,
the odor of dough,
the crank of the pump handle
used in the sink?
Grandmother, when did women
stop wearing aprons,
the sun slide into rooms of dusty elegance?
Where are the loose sounds of the threshold,
the iron stove,
the comics spread on the floor,
the smell of coffee boiled into ink?
Where does water taste like a well,
and a porch creak with an xylophone of boards?
Where does wood look so natural,
and have the firm surface of toil?
Why was youth such a natural part of age?
Why did you and I have so much in common?
You created breezes with your passing.
Left trails of yourself I could follow,
voices of invisible cloth,
newspapers crinkling,
a cookie laid on the table.
You were never a child
and I can never be old.
You are a house that was never painted,
everything constant and forever.
A piece of ice from an icebox,
Kool-Aid, I taste to this day.