It tells its stories of decades past, stories infused with the scent of frying bacon and eggs basted in better— its fine-hewn blade that slipped with ease beneath the crispy whites. And just-brown pancakes awaiting the slather of melted butter and maple syrup (before we knew better). Stories of a family gathered ‘round blue flames of a 1950’s stove each Sunday. Planning for the unraveling of a new day and vying (without luck) to decipher the morning’s sermon delivered in a heavy Irish brogue. I found it yesterday, huddled between the tines of a fork, buried in the back of a deep, cluttered drawer at the old house. The handle, worn now, yet serviceable, red, ridged texture cradled in the palm of my now-wrinkled hand, serving up remembrances of simple days, days before these hands touched pain, held loss. The crack along the back, like earths’ seismic proclamations of changing landscapes, changing lives. Its stainless steel paddle smooth as ice, pressed against my flaccid cheek, a recollection of Mama’s touch upon my fevered brow. And breakfast. Who would have thought it would take this long to find it? Who would have thought I would be the last?
Written for dVerse Open Link Night. Join us and drink deeply of poetry.