Mom greets us at her door.
Like my grandmother, like my mother- no matter when we show up,
food (favorite food) is ready to be sliced and served.
And peeled and roasted and baked and grilled and frosted and . . . eaten.
Or whipped and spread.
I can’t show you the photos of the scratch hot chocolate sauce she made us one night.
Like daughter, like granddaughter, we were too busy moaning
over spoonfuls of sauce melting our ice cream.
My father’s backyard, my mother’s glass. Late afternoon sunlight.
Her plum tree. This fall, she’ll turn 300 pounds of plums into jam.
My mother’s dog. My mother’s touch.