Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Bounty

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


        I'm still trying to write little pieces about different relatives, and some specific memories of being with them.  This one concerns my grandmother that I saw only in the summer, visiting a few weeks with her and my grandfather, the one I wrote of on July 2nd, his birthday.  



              Bounty

I sit among the green leaves,
on the warm earth, waiting
for my grandmother to finish
weeding, to finish choosing
the vegetables for dinner.
She moves along the rows,
looking and choosing ripe,
skinny green beans for her
basket.  Reaching down, she pulls
up a few onions, dropping those
fragrant white bulbs in, too.
She brings out a handkerchief
to wipe her face, and sits down to rest,
saying, “you should wear a hat.  You’ll
get a burn,” while removing her own hat
to fan herself.
  Then, then
she brings out her knife, reaches over
to grab one of the watermelons on the
vine near where I’d planted myself. 
One stroke and it splits open, revealing
the sweetness, the crunch, the pinky-red
of summer.  The smell is like no other, a
cooling breeze!  Grandmother reaches again
with the knife, carves out the heart, offering me
half.  In this way she shows her own heart to me,
sharing the bounty created by her tireless work.
Each year, she manages an acre, keeping all rewards
in jars and straw in the root cellar. 
There are rows and rows
showing off like high-kicking chorus lines.  
I take another bite, juice dripping down
my chin, and we laugh together over
the riches we share.

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