Remembering One Special Morning
Hands spotted by age, veins prominent, knuckles no longer bendy. Up early, before first light, pounding and kneading dough into submission. Using the ring of a mason jar lid to form perfectly rounded biscuits. Gnarled hands struggling to hold the baking sheet steady as the hands placed the pan in a tired oven, as tired and worn as those hands.
Though not really needed, a timer dinging, the hands using a loopy-kid-crafted potholder, already setting the pan on the stovetop. The scent—how heaven must smell—wafting through the tiny house. Hands buttering golden biscuits. Perfection. Melted butter running down chins. Using rough generic paper towels to dab butter-sheened mouths.
Me telling Grandmama "Thank you," using manners she had taught me.
Me asking Grandmama to draw with me. Grandmama, pulling down—then climbing the shaky attic stairs to find her art supplies. She was an artist once upon a time when her hands were smooth and nimble. Us sitting at her kitchen table, covered with a new strip of butcher's paper, ripped from the roll she always seemed to have on hand. Me drawing cartoon figures and flowers and doggys, she'd taught me well. No stick figure mommies and daddies. Her encouraging me, and drawing her own cartoon people, one looking like me with a mop of auburn hair and one looking suspiciously like my Daddy with his thinning flame-orange hair. He was holding my hand and I was smiling a wide goofy cartoon grin.
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by my Grandmama.
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