Where are her cinnamon buns,
\nthe odor of dough,
\nthe crank of the pump handle
\nused in the sink?
\nGrandmother, when did women
\nstop wearing aprons,
\nthe sun slide into rooms of dusty elegance?
\nWhere are the loose sounds of the threshold,
\nthe iron stove,
\nthe comics spread on the floor,
\nthe smell of coffee boiled into ink?
\nWhere does water taste like a well,
\nand a porch creak with a xylophone of boards?
\nWhere does wood look so natural,
\nand have the firm face of toil?<\/p>\n
Why was youth such a natural part of age?
\nWhy did you and I have so much in common?
\nYou created breezes with your passing.
\nLeft trails of yourself I could follow,
\nvoices of invisible cloth,
\nnewspapers crinkling,
\na cookie laid on the table.
\nYou were never a child
\nand I can never be old.
\nYou are a house that was never painted,
\neverything constant and forever.
\nA piece of ice from an icebox,
\nKool-Aid, I taste to this day.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n