The
kitchen smelled of simmering cauliflower
and soap suds.
As
you hovered over the steaming pan,
I
was elbow deep in citrus bubbles.
You
pulled a blue ceramic bowl from the microwave
filled
with steaming green goop.
My
nose wrinkled
at
its seaweedy strangeness.
I
sloshed the sludge around with my spoon.
“Grandma,
we really eat this stuff?”
You
just stirred the cauliflower,
powdered
blue t-shirt shaking with your shoulders.
“People
find strength in the strangest things.”
I
dipped my finger into the buttery slime,
pressed
it to my tongue, and swallowed.
I
smiled up at you with green leaflets,
When
the cancer caught hold of your lungs,
that
ceramic bowl sat steaming on the dinner table.
You
were still Grandma,
and
I was a green giant.
When
its tendrils twined their way into your brain,
I
saw the filmy soap suds in your clouded vision.
The
ceramic bowl lay empty in the cupboard
gathering
dust.
I think that is a sad one.
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