September 11, 2017 | Occasus | Issue 7 | Poetry
Grandma, 2005
You have always smelled of fresh lake water,
and the reedy banks of Campbell’s Bay; at night, as we sit around a fire that matches your hair, listening to the stories from your childhood, the smoke embraces all of us. Kissed with liver spots, your parchment thin arms are decorated with the rainbow of southern style bangles; dressed in loose pastel plaids, your slight frame stands for hours, rolling out the sticky dough for egg noodles; heavy with the weight of jeweled rings, your hands knead knots out of my shoulders and iron creases out of my sweaters. Eleven of us sit around the scratched up oak dinner table, eating the greasy skin off of roasted chickens, cracked cold beers and emptied wine bottles scattering the scene; I watch you as you watch us, your crows feet creasing together, aging eyes laughing, as your daughter teaches us sand-stained kids to use our tongues to push homemade mashed potatoes through the gaps between our front teeth. |
KATE ZAHNOW is a third year Honours Specialization in Health Sciences major with a minor in Creative Writing.