Her gold-plated spoon clanked against the hand-painted cup as visible steam rolled into the air. Hot tea was her favorite though most of the household preferred caffeinated coffee. She always put her family first, not sitting down for a meal until everyone was served and then eating just the back of the chicken she fried so that others got better pieces. I guess that’s why we couldn’t cast blame upon her for…….. anything.
I sat beside her at the kitchen table, unable to hear the gentle sip she made after blowing the heat away. She brought out the good china only because the preacher was coming to brunch, luckily for her, he also preferred tea.
I was tempted to grab one of the home-made biscuits covered in peach preserves that she’d stood for hours stirring around in the big metal pot. A few pieces of country ham that grandaddy cured himself sat waiting on a dinner plate. He had only been gone a couple of months – the sight of the pork nearly made me cry.
The squealing of brakes alerted us to the minister’s arrival. My grandmother stood up from the table and straightened her apron, the one embroidered with pink roses, a Christmas gift from her cousin Martha. “Sit down. I can answer the door.” My offer declined as she said that wasn’t a proper way to great a “Man of God.” She was the lady of the house and would do it herself, the respectful way.
I excused myself to the living room once they were seated.
He prayed and began to read scripture from his trusty leather-bound BIBLE. He started with Colossians 3:13, the one about forgiving others. I chuckled silently wondering how my grave-ridden grandfather could pardon her for mariticide. How necessary was someone else’s forgiveness, anyways?
Leesa Writes 