“Eat your breakfast kiddo.” I hear my grandmother say.
She say’s the same thing every time I go to see her.
Through out my life seems like she has always said this.
This time however I remember playing with the little round
things floating in the milk as I am strapped into the big wooden
chair. The same chair that held my uncle, my aunt, and so many
others. I can see the sunlight come in the window of her little house.
Time and age communicate to us through our ancestors.
It’s a long conversation and sometimes our whole lives consist
of getting just one word, and others we get a paragraph.
I remember her smell and her touch. How her hands felt.
Knowledgable hands each crevice and knuckle
each tiny hair communicated something to me.
There is apart of me that hasn’t grown up.
That is still young, and impressionable
There is still a part of me that smells of baby
even as my hands take on that “knowledge”
even as my hair and face my muscles, bone, and sinew
listen for my word.