Thursday, August 8, 2013
She stood at the sink, back facing me. Not yet aware of my presence, I saw the weight of the years she carried on her rounding shoulders.
I watched as she sensed me enter, her shoulders straitening, before she turned with a half smile that broke whole when she took me in –
A tangle of a girl, hair cut short, dress pulled waist high to cradle the rubies I had pulled from the earth, the imprints of them pressing, bleeding red, through my thin cotton and onto the skin below. Arms, raw from the brambles, knees, scabbed, still holding the soil to my skin. My young soul, wild and free, filled the kitchen with the smell of Minnesota summer, reminiscent of the birch sapling, when it is ready to burst forth its first leaves.
A breeze blew in, picking up the corner of the lace curtain beside me, tickling my elbow, while the faint trace of my grandmother’s perfume welcomed me. The old stove fan hummed the steady benediction of those quiet moments.
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