Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Chicken soup for the soul.

Black charcoal and white hot ash. 
I watch as she toils over the well-worn stove. 
Her movements restricted. 
Her hearing impaired. 
Her speech lacking in life. 
Her pride, 
As a proud woman who devotes her life to keeping the house in order. 
She will clean. 
And cook. 
For as long as she lives. 
Her stubborness translates into a perfect bowl of chicken soup. 
She feeds my soul. 
My grandma.

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