Three days before she died
the old bird Lazarus’d right out of her bed,
genie’d out of her bottle, shuffling
off the overplucked goose down
the starched sheets
that had been such a weight on her bones
the week before.
We dare not argue
with the pink in her cheek, she would not
be laid to rest, insisted instead,
with old spring in new step,
to gather the family and cook a feast
(even though by then, she admitted
she had no longer the sense of smell
that taste was a ghost that must be chased,
that seasoning must be added with muscle
memory alone)
She cracked her marrow
snapped her peas, whipped angels
into the cream. The windows steamed
as she stirred the broth, chopped the herbs
and onions translucent on the block.
She rolled the pastry thin,
then iced the fingers and toes of the children
one-last-time. That day and night became
a gingerbread festival:
a birthday, a light footed spun Christmas,
golden caramel wedding in one.
Her face lit with every single candle
of her 80 years.
–
Jennie E. Owen’s writing has been widely published in literary journals and anthologies. She teaches creative writing for The Open University and lives in Lancashire, UK, with her husband and three children. She is currently working on her Ph.D. under the guidance of Manchester Metropolitan University.