My Grandma’s kitchen had a different kind of warmth…

My Grandma’s kitchen had a different kind of warmth…
Oh, the conversations and prayers we shared there…
That nicked table where we had our meals…
Discovering that everyday is not the same.

Grandma taught me that there are no perfect lines and angles…
Only the irregular shapes of potatoes and broccoli and apple pie…
All birthed from her stove so bright and intense…
Having such enormous might.

Here, I found that beyond my dreams are other dreams…
Playing a game of hide and seek…
All created from one divine spark…
Like rare air flowing from this holy fire.

Those who we loved lived in that kitchen…
Whether in person or in memory…
All with a whispered reverence…
Arriving, often out of nowhere.

I often think about this…
It is here where my most sacred memories lie…
But my thoughts can never give my Grandma’s kitchen justice…
You just had to be there.

I love you,

Annie