This is a new vocabulary, the vocabulary of grief, mixed with words of sorrow and of joy. Sorrow for what might have been; sorrow for what was; sorrow for what is. Joy for having had the incredible chance to know. I walk a crevassed road full of uneven holes scattered like Swiss cheese, grey and rocky, like the moon. It is like the end of the world and the beginning, merged into one. It is the plain flour without the baking powder; a dry biscuit in need of jam. I bake biscuits, trying to reproduce my mother’s, but never succeeding. She said hers were no good after the local Caneyville miller stopped producing the light white flour she found so perfect, so my chances are slim. Mine will never live up to hers. I will never live up to her. I keep making biscuits and pies, true to my Southern roots. Even if I will never be her, I can try.
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 18:12:12 +0000
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