Aged wooden chairs in the summer of 2011
gnarled with antiqueness and crayon stains
I can still find them if I look hard enough
colored encrusted sticks of wax sped
in little hands as warmth sizzled on the stove
Rumbles of stomachs and the whining of oil
chicken slapped with little green speckles
and spices
worn, delicate, quick hands plopped them in
I remember the sound of soft meat hitting metal
It was my job to get out
the plates and silverware
Brother handled the napkins and took out his ketchup
Sister sat looking pretty
youth always has its advantages and still does
Grandma cleaned the table
with a wet rag still smelling of breakfast
the same one she used to kill the flies that came to feast as well
The way a towel should be used
our accidental masterpieces are wiped off in watercolor dance
Biscuits are pulled from the oven
Quickly covered in a flower-printed towel
placed inside a ceramic bowl
aside butter or jam, depending on one’s liking
I still prefer both
Sunset paints the windows
Like it still does decades away
As a grilled mountain placed before us
Little tounges lick lips
We sit and engulf in amen.