It was a place that reeked of loneliness
A sharp tang caused by too many meals downed in solitude
In the corner, resting on the rough concrete floor
Huddled next to three mismatched stools
Is a simple wooden table, handmade
Its four crooked legs, worn and splintered
The planks that constitutes its surface, stained
By dismal symphonies of browns, blacks, and greys
Two of the stools are the same
Exhausted lumber and creaky limbs, dyed ashen with dust from the sandy floor
A duo of varying heights and girths
The remaining seat is pastel green, low to the ground, and made of hard plastic
A seat once occupied by a child, a reminder of jovial youth lost to a time long gone
But my grandmother toils in her desolate dwelling
In union with her smoky wood stove
Invading icy isolation with glowing love
Warmness that spreads like her anticipation, then finally!
Her child, her grandchild, are home, and the spell of silence is broken
Grease on the stove sizzles, pots clang and flames dance gaily as logs are piled
Trills of laughter resonate
A soulful melody to the spontaneous orchestra
Softer, quieter comes the smells of a feast
Freshly butchered meat, my grandmother’s prized hen, glistening and slick with oil
Adds its savory aroma to the chorus.
The table, washed and polished, shines
The stools, for the first time in years, are filled.