Through the rustic dust of the kitchen,
Momma is brewin’ up her old-fashioned stew
while Cousin Jane plays catch with Brother Jeffery.
Me and Granddaddy sway against the breeze together on our old rockin’ chair
and tell each other stories.
Good Southern ones, ones that have been passed down farther than our dirt road stretches.
After our stomachs are tired from laughin’
we eat Momma’s stew ’round our grand table,
where the blood and sweat stains that are embedded in the fractures tell us stories.
And when the stars weave through the corn fields
Me and Granddaddy still gather on our chair and read under the light of the full moon, which casts a shadow over our country escape.
“But what ever happened to that house, Mom?”
With each interested stare my daughter gave, I had to answer.
For the rest of that conversation no words were heard,
only the heavy breathing that hovered over the photograph.
Past the rays of sunlight, smoke towered the fields,
Pieces of that old rockin’ chair were cremated in the ashes of the burned house
and the stains of the grand table melted away as the foundation folded inwards.
Nothing was left except debris, old picture frames, and the memories.
No one knew that our country home would make the front page that night.
I use this picture to taste the aroma of beef stew, to hear the sounds of Jane and Jeffery again, and to laugh along to the stories that my granddaddy still tells.