I see her, the grey granite countertop resembles

A frosted pavement. Consecrated to her cookery. Hunched, bent

At the waist, leaning over the Earthenware bowl. Partly from concentration,

Mostly from degradation of her exerted body. Rosy face,

Chipped rim and a crooked smile, a routine scene in our house.

I am soothed by it only for an instant, then disquieted as my

Eyes discern. The familiarity of her fingers as they

Rub cold butter cubes into the flour, the oily fat a balm for her

Dry, diligent hands. The fluorescence of the light brings her

Wrinkles and furrows into sharp focus. The senescence

Writ large, my heart aches. So many times, I have watched

These hands create, and now I see the arthritic shakes

As she lifts the heavy crock with a gratified but weary sigh.

The stewed apples are tombed; the crumble topping

Falls gently, plenty of sugar. To be shared with hungry mouths.

The dish, humble, as she is. I wonder how many more of these

Moments I will be blessed to share with her. Pulling up a chair,

She tells me “You look stressed dear”. I don’t dispute this,

Only close my eyes, breathe in the familiar scent of cooked fruit.

Thinking only of my acute and absolute despair at the concept of

Living, without her.

By Jordanne Kennaugh