Food for Thought-Bringing My Grandmother Into Epiphany


The gifts we bring into the room,
are not ours to give,
three glittering boxes,
were given to Him,
now presented to you,
in impromptu ceremonies,
by hastily assembled cribs,
the gold of time,
the frankincense of love,
the myrrh of wisdom,
laid by our feet,
near the kitchen table,
where my grandmother stood,
stained apron,
hands with calluses covered,
she gave me these gifts,
and caused me to belong,
in a house surrounded,
by dirt,
and the whistling sounds,
of the afternoon train,
rolling it’s forgotten way,
east, through tobacco fields,
and pine trees,
this is the place,
where I learned to be me,
surrounded by the symphony,
of late afternoon peace,
her story,
told in Earth refined grace,
I am what I have become,
because of this place,
sweetened by the sugar,
left slightly ajar,
pickled by the vinegar,
kept in the mason jar,
This is my story,
my song,
It will never end,
the memories move,
on and on, again.

-Richard Bryant


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