My grandmother was the cook for family gatherings.
Her homemade bread—something I crave still.
An apron she’d sewn herself,
white with ruffles.
She loved to work creatively,
her hands always busy with some dream
needing anchored in reality.
She didn’t wear makeup.
But when a young woman—red lipstick.
She knew our family lines
like no one before her.
I never felt alone in her presence.
She’d wink, smile,
or bring me to see her latest creation:
a Celtic-green table with white vines
she’d stripped and painted herself.
Wooden chairs in carnival colors,
the ornate carvings given new life to shine brighter.
Spirit dolls, the ancestors adored.
Her Louisiana heritage—
the sharpness in her cadence.
Roots never leave a person entirely.
© 2025 Raven | Jasmine on the Grave. All rights reserved.
Jasmine on the Grave 
I can feel the beautiful bond with your grandmother in this poem, Jasmine. Lovely!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much, Hazel. I appreciate you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s my pleasure, Jasmine. I can sense the similarities we have, especially how you replied.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Me too, Hazel.💖
LikeLiked by 1 person
I observed every commenter I have. I like it when they express their thoughts sincerely. I can feel it; not in a rush.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes. It’s very nice to connect in sincerity. I observe and feel that sort of connecting, too. I appreciate it a lot. It is a kindness.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Truly!
LikeLiked by 1 person