By Kenneth Pobo
My grandmother’s house, weathered,
a dirt driveway. When I visit
she makes a cherry pie.
I help her pit. She tells stories
as cherry juice stains my polo shirt.
At 85, decades turn cornflower
blue by her mailbox.
Grandpa had one habit she hated—
he’d chew tobacco in the living room,
spit—brown slime on the floor.
She squeezes a cherry
like it’s a head, eyes ready to bulge free.
Her pie will taste sweet—
but cut by lemon juice she dribbles in,
a perfect blend
as the knife nears the edge.
Artwork by Jackie Benney. Published with permission of the artist.