Memorial Day

Memorial Day

She says, "Your fudge is good,

but can  you make caramel?

My granny used to make caramel."

I ask, "Do you have the recipe?"

She says, "She didn't use one.

I didn't pay attention.

I can't get one.

She passed away.

I should've paid attention."

She says, "Mamaw used to make chicken and dumplins.

Mine aren't the same.

Can you make biscuits from scratch?

Mine turn out hard.

Biscuits and dumplins I can't do.

Not like Mamaw."

"Can you bring us banana split cake?

The old-timey kind?"

He stands up in church and asks:

"Can anybody make divinity?

I haven't had any since Mommy died.

Do any of you ladies know how to make it?"

I can make biscuits and blackberry cobbler.

I can make fudge—

not too hard,

and not too soft.

I memorized the hands and the faces

as I memorized the ingredients.

Invisible recipes written on my heart.

I think I knew even then to

preserve them for later,

to put them up for a future season,

pull them out in the bleakness of winter.

Nanny's biscuits, Mamaw's dumplins,

Granny's caramel fudge, Mommy's divinity.

What they are really asking is:

Can you take me back?

Can you give me back

time?