Grandmother’s Bleeding Hearts
Pray tell, what did she have? The same old Formica table, white with red-chipped paint, one over-sized basin for a sink – soiled dish towels hanging, drying draped over a piece of wood.
A dented white metal cabinet half-filled with foggy, plastic glasses. Ceramic cocoa bowls, cracked.
Every other day she held an ice pick in her aging hand’s defrosting her old refrigerator – those knees had to be raw – knelt on linoleum day and night praying –
praying out loud, half crying, saying – “Thanks, thanks.”
I still see the old black iron pan, resting on a stove without a lid; scolded herself holding metal in place. Her pantry had a liner – covered with little frills;
red and white flowers, cups, saucers lined perfectly in space. No one touched a single item in her pantry.
As she aged, a hassock would be placed to lift her legs. her feet would drag, her knees were old and she appeared frail. She still prayed as her homemade curtains blew in the wind.
Every morning, into the cracked ceramic bowl she tossed, dried old Italian Bread, Dandy Crackers, Ritz, Graham – Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, and cookies – from her old antique cookie jar; a funny bear – it smiled at us, remaining on the same spot of her chipped table.
I loved her Cookie Jar filled with striped cookies from “Woolworth’s.” Those cookies made me happy.
Now I wonder why Grandma’s pans hung from nails in her pantry – I wonder why she had a bread box, nailed shut?
The cookie jar, I remember most – Yellow, green with eyes that stared from her table.
I played beneath her open kitchen window, near Grandmother’s plants – her bleeding hearts.