small poems & small plates
I'm remembering the large ramshackle home of my grandparents, a home which was a happy place for many of us. My father lamented that his father never made much money, and so he lived on the edge of wanting things. But to us as children we saw only that the door was open, the kettle warm, the dinner ready, the beds fluffy, the adults full of ridiculous fun and endless stories. They grew corn and raised chickens. They took us to the corner store to buy treats and pick up their mail and chat with their neighbors. We walked down country roads to be shown off to their friends. When they came to live with us during the winter, we only knew it would halt our parents' daily terror for a time, and our own home would take on a new timbre, with their voices, their wondrous love.