Grace Merritt

I walked past the Cinnabon store at the mall

and for just a moment thought I was

back in my great-grandmother’s kitchen

the passage of time has had no effect

on my reminiscing of our favorite things

Days spent running in and out of their house

aromas from the kitchen driving us wild

anticipation of cinnamon twister donuts

still piping hot from the oil in the pan as she

fished them out rolled them in sugar

lined them up on a rack to cool

as we waited eagerly to get a bite

couldn’t steal them early

great-grandma was the kitchen general

we swore she had eyes in the back of her head

She wiped her hands on a freshly starched apron

worn over her faded cotton housecoat

ironed to perfection hanging loosely

from her 100 pound frame

The heat from the kitchen didn’t dampen her spirits

she hummed a tune from her favorite hymn

its melody mixing with the whir of the ceiling fan

She pushed back a single strand that slipped

from her braided and knotted bun where

sunlight hit to reflect the silver threads

woven by time throughout her hair

She puffed on her unfiltered Camel cigarette

as it hung from the right side of her mouth

its untapped ash grew longer as it bowed

perilously down towards the pastry sheet

Just as we thought it would drop onto

the batch of rolled dough

she would open her apron pocket with one

gnarled finger and flip the ash right in

We screamed in delight as we ran out the back door

she howled with laughter swatted us with her

freshly ironed kitchen towel

and in her gravelly voice yelled

don’t slam the screen door, dammit

She headed to her ironing board

to dampen the cotton sheets with a

water-filled Pepsi bottle topped with a sprinkler cork

She puffed on yet another unfiltered Camel cigarette

as it hung from the right side of her mouth

its untapped ash grew longer as it bowed

perilously down towards the perfectly ironed sheets