Bounty

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


        I'm still trying to write little pieces about different relatives, and some specific memories of being with them.  This one concerns my grandmother that I saw only in the summer, visiting a few weeks with her and my grandfather, the one I wrote of on July 2nd, his birthday.  

              Bounty

I sit among the green leaves,

on the warm earth, waiting

for my grandmother to finish

weeding, to finish choosing

the vegetables for dinner.

She moves along the rows,

looking and choosing ripe,

skinny green beans for her

basket.  Reaching down, she pulls

up a few onions, dropping those

fragrant white bulbs in, too.

She brings out a handkerchief

to wipe her face, and sits down to rest,

saying, “you should wear a hat.  You’ll

get a burn,” while removing her own hat

to fan herself.

  Then, then

she brings out her knife, reaches over

to grab one of the watermelons on the

vine near where I’d planted myself. 

One stroke and it splits open, revealing

the sweetness, the crunch, the pinky-red

of summer.  The smell is like no other, a

cooling breeze!  Grandmother reaches again

with the knife, carves out the heart, offering me

half.  In this way she shows her own heart to me,

sharing the bounty created by her tireless work.

Each year, she manages an acre, keeping all rewards

in jars and straw in the root cellar. 

There are rows and rows

showing off like high-kicking chorus lines.  

I take another bite, juice dripping down

my chin, and we laugh together over

the riches we share.