image of my "Granny"-Helen Morain Stainbrook
from poetess' personal scrapbook
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She measured flour in cupped hands, never teaspoons or scales~ just the way her mother taught her, back when the world was softer. Her fingers, knotted with time, stirred stories into batter, each wrinkle a sentence, each scar a footnote. The table wobbled, one leg shorter than the rest, but she never fixed it. It’s like us, she’d say, a little uneven, but it holds. Now, when I press my palm into bread dough, I feel her pulse beneath mine, a ghost-knead, a whisper of flour and sweat and something like love. The table sits empty now, but sometimes, if I listen, it still creaks under the weight of her laughter. the related memoir vignetted can be found at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/memories_and_ghosts_13625
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