We made our way to the pear trees that grew
Back behind Grandma and Grandaddy’s house
To pick what we could so mom and my aunts
Would bake a fresh pie to eat after lunch.
Grandma made homemade vanilla ice-cream
Which sent Grandaddy to Mr. Berkman’s
Across the road from the old cotton gin
Because there never was enough rock salt.
Up that tree I was on top of the world,
Ten years old looking out over the fields
And the horse pasture next to the old barn,
When wasps stung me square between the shoulders.
I tried not to cry when I ran inside,
But I’m afraid my eyes gave me away.
Still, nothing beats the healing power of
The love those women baked into that pie.
True story
Labels:
Poetry
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