Cona Adams Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

She was a wonderful cook.

Christmas, Minus One

We said our goodbyes in June,
and the months since blur into mist.
At unexpected moments, awareness
of loss hits; tears spill unbidden.

Family gathering, Christmas Eve 
as usual . . . minus one.
We quietly exchanged gifts, 
found flowers from her funeral 
crafted into hand-made jewelry, 
kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes.

I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines.
I extracted seeds and peelings, 
and measured life-sustaining juice 
through the metal funnel she used 
from the day of her marriage.
It came to me dented and bent, 
like her body had been at 93.

I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven 
chocolate rolls after school, 
garden tomatoes warmed by the sun, 
hot biscuits with apple jelly, 
squeezed from the peelings after 
she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie.

I'm glad I didn't know then,
about being allergic to Cinnamon.

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Ilene Bauer October 31, 2014 at 10:23 AM this is so touching and rich in its imagery and emotion - i really love it. the ending is both unexpected and delightful... Cona Adams October 31, 2014 at 10:58 AM Thanks, Ilene, for again visiting my page and commenting on a poem. Mother was one in a million, and I miss her daily. But, i take comfort in knowing that she is in Heaven, and I will someday join her there.