She wore her curves well
That old farmhouse kitchen
Her ample bosom comfort for the weary
Season upon season, she plodded along
Her hips swaying as she moved through hot summer days and cold winter nights
Jarred pickles and peaches her jewels
The warmth of her fire a bit ardent for some
But for others a balm
Small bums and big ones backed up to her side
She drew them into her warm and smokey embrace
In return, her chrome fenders were polished
An endless supply of chocolate chip cookies, roasters of scalloped potatoes, crisp loaves of sourdough, blueberry pies, and bowl after bowl of popped corn
Satiated the rumbles and cravings
Her kitchen table homey and hallowed
Shared conversation, tears and laughter, love-making, squabbles and first steps,
Seasoned her soul and saturated her space
We thought she would go on forever
But one day
She untied her apron with wizened hands and hung it on the hook at the stairway door
Then ambled out with a contented smile
My work here is done.
If the heart of the home is in the kitchen
Her pulse will be palpated through new veins for years to come
Infusing old ways into a new life
