I was eating buttermilk biscuits One day they were light and softer Than bliss on my tongueIn that moment it seemed like I was tasting yesterday.
It took me back to the teal and white house on Count Street Me sitting at the kitchen counter watching my grandmother Quiet as a statue except kneading the biscuit dough
I’m sitting at the counter with my stomach rumbling it’s protest
Wondering when or if we will ever use those porcelain dishes held hostage in the oak china cabinet
I remember sunlight pouring into the kithen
Wrapped up in the feeling of peace and comfort like a blanket
Today I sit here missing all the things I took for granted then