She made sponge cake
Dough rising
Like joy in the afternoon
With smells of flour, eggs, sugar
Lemons, oranges
Apple cake always with cinnamon
Honey, raisins, nuts, and vanilla.
And luscious potato kugel
With onions chopped so fine they were invisible.
There was always food for strangers or dogs
I would bring home.
Travels of a teenage soul
Or college student with compassion
For the lost and lonely.
If we could have stayed
Little girl and wiser Mother
It might have been enough
To keep us whole, connected.
Joined at the hip was never to be
Not for us…
Though on cold wintry days
With snow weighing down limbs
Before sunrise
I still open doors on cupboards
Gently, ever so gently.
Whispering through my kitchen
Remembering joy rising
Upside down on Coca Cola bottles
On brilliant, lazy Arizona afternoons.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
*On Blog Talk Radio March 25, 2010
You know how to fold us into the batter, serve everything up cozy, wafting of orange and vanilla, us turned for joy seeing the cake floating lightly on that bottle. Joy rising like the swell of invisible sweetness…
Oh, Sara… this was magical. I felt the joy rising, the comfort, the intimacy of that time, the communion. I think you managed to hit upon all my senses, leaving me searching the cupboards to fill some deep craving… Maybe I’ll just have to roll up my sleeves and create some new kitchen memories. Beautiful!