Sift
I am in my grandmother's kitchen
my elbow on the yellow marbled countertop
pushing the heel of my hand
into my sulky chin,
my hips slowly spinning the high-top stool
to tap my knee on the cabinet door.
I know the sound annoys her,
but she doesn't stop me.
She is early in cake baking,
sifting.
"What's the point?" I ask.
"You put in flour,
flour comes out."
Her right hand on the ceramic-bulbed crank
is swift, certain.
Her left hand tapping the cylinder
is deliberate, persistent.
I notice they are two different rhythms,
syncopating,
her body's two minds working
indifferent to each other,
and in concert.
Metal on metal
completes the work of grinding stones,
whispering.
"What's the point?"
"Softness," she smiles, without looking at me.
"Lightness."
For a moment, I am in the backyard
in that patch of afternoon light
by the okra plants,
before and after
the touch of sun and air
turned from being
to being desperate refuge,
and from refuge
to promise.
Today I woke before dawn,
as she always did,
as I have always done,
to the sound of myself alone
in the low-light kitchen
to stovetop coffee
and the work of hands and heart
waiting in the still-dark rooms of the house.
The ache of other ways to rise--
your voice, your hands--
still holding.
But softer,
lighter.
