GRANDMA'S KITCHEN

 

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When I remember childhood, it is Grandma's kitchen I remember. It was everything I knew of peacefulness and safety. Today, let's go back in time, to when the world seemed bigger, and safer,  when life had predictability and values, when all dreams seemed possible.

• You might write about your grandmother's kitchen itself, what it looked like, and /or memories of meals cooked and shared there
• You might share a special memory of time you spent with her as a child 
  
• Or paint us a portrait that gives us a sense of who she was, and what she meant to you
• You might switch your point of view, and write about her through your child's eyes - the way you saw her then, when you and the world were young

Or you might wish to write about being a grandma. Or grandpa!

I look forward to reading your responses. Please link your poem and visit other poets in the spirit of community.

This poem, included for inspiration, does not specify that it is Grandma's kitchen table. But the feeling in the poem, the centrality of that table in a child's life and memory, makes it feel like my Grandma's kitchen - which was small and humble, but the family joked that the stove never had time to get cold. Smiles.

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Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.