At My Grandparents’ House

The scent of buttermilk pie
sneaking through the crack under my bedroom door
Hands, dry and coarse,
gripping the wheel of the riding mower and off he goes
Banjos singing into the night as adults dance in squares
and children run under the star splattered sky
Heat from the wood stove overpowering the room
until I have to sneak to crack a window
Another set of hands, dry and coarse,
diggin holes in the dirt before she plants the spring petunias
The crackle of okra cooking in an iron skillet
instantly making my mouth water
Fish frying in the wash house on a Friday night
while ketchup and tartar sauce sit at the ready
Faint sounds of “Get ‘im”, “Take ‘im down”, “Umph!”
making me laugh as Rick Flair wins again
Sweat tea and collard greens
and fatback floating in a pot of pinto beans
and somewhere, someone humming Amazing Grace…