i’ve brewed espresso and i’ve steamed the milk. when she was in ethiopia and drinking coffee from the hand of god, she wished i was there with her.
i did, too.
the fire is made and she stops in her tracks to look long, to look at everything. she hears the music and starts singing along, a bird in the house.
i hug her and she’s a slight frame made slighter these past months by circumstances, by a broken heart over her closest relatives, but her girls know – an entire congregation knows, of her strength.
when a poet comes over, she doesn’t wade into deep waters because she’s in them. you can join her or not. it’s the deep things that have caught this one.
death and life and the power of the tongue. she knows the weight of a word. and when i read the ones she writes down, it occurs to me how much sees and does not say.
she’s brought brownies. she will sweeten all this truth.
i make up recipes, but not the poet. she finds the words written down to show her what to do. she’ll mix the sugars and the butter with a wooden spoon and she will follow the recipe because she has faith in others knowing more than she does. she follows hard and that isn’t easy for a poet.
i taste and see what’s she has made. our eyes meet and we laugh at the perfection, at the decadence, of following another’s words written down to the letter.
photos by amy kimball photography