I’m feeling reminiscent this Sunday morning, so I’d like to share one of my poems that expresses what’s going on inside. This piece serves as an homage to the Sunday dinners at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house in Humble, Texas when I was a little girl.
The Doxology is barely off of my tongue
Shoulders still ablaze from the sizzling streams of daylight pouring through the car windows Darting from the backseat of the old, yellow Dodge and scampering to the first clanking, then squeaking gate racing up the sidewalk and the cracked concrete stairs Porch. Living room. Dining room. How innocently this banquet lies in waiting though it has been teasing my mind and palate since the onset of the sermon Table spilling over with home-cooked devotion Platters placed purposefully by the experienced hands of the Patriarch and Matriarch Round chargers layered with ripened, ruby red tomatoes salted and peppered to perfection Purple onions, similarly arranged and vying for recognition Steaming bowls of the garden’s bounty Sunny squash mingled with bacon and onions that were minced on the striped, wooden cutting board Pepper-sprinkled, creamy alabaster potatoes dripping with a russet-hued elixir that was birthed in the worn iron skillet Golden cornbread with a touch of sugar spooned in Creamed butter whipped till it curls like a wisp of smoke Plastic lids removed from blue tubs, revealing faux butter for those who insist upon it Roasted beef disguised by a mountain of scallions and candied carrots Fried chicken forming a mountain on a cookie sheet (We are proud Southerners, after all) Pink roses on a glass canvas a glass canvas that is filled with iced tea its sweetness strengthening as the saccharin tablets are secretly plopped in by tricky tribesmen unaware of each other’s imbibing intentions Clunky rectangular hunks of ice stacked upon one another in diverse drinking glasses Bubbly, flaky peach cobbler no box in sight (Mrs. Smith is never invited) No “how-to” booklets or stained pieces of paper needed They know it all by heart Chairs of wood and metal congregated in a tight round Houston phone books stacked high for the diminutive members of the clan Mismatched plates, glasses, and flatware but never the mugs always pale green, Fire King mugs filled with sugary, beige coffee brewed in a clear glass percolator Tell Mel Tormé to scat away the hi-fi only broadcasts our laughter The Doxology carries on, everlasting I lift my pale green, Fire King mug of sugary, beige coffee and breathe the scent in, deeply Reminiscing. Musing. Evoking those flashes of memory and satisfaction and home-cooked devotion and hunger for that same old repast |