her kitchen was simple, filled with
simple things...ironware, jelly glasses
silver spoons, and red-striped linen
dish towels she draped over the
handle of the oven door and tucked
into the waistband of her apron...
rushing in from the car on our visits
to her home in the country, I would
bury my face in the scent of rising
yeast and cinnammon dust she'd used
her towel to wipe from the soapstone
counters where she kneaded loaves of
crusty bread we'd have with soup for
dinner...
long after she left the farmhouse for a
room where she could only bring a
few photos and her favortie quilt, I
found a cache of red-striped dish
towels at a flea market one summer day
and knew they were the perfect shade
of home to match the memories
in her heart...and mine...
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