In the voice of my grandmother, speaking her blend of Southern drawl and broken English
Chile, let me tell you ’bout the time
I lost my baby boy to that war—
not the big one everybody talk about,
but the little one inside his head
that nobody could see comin’.
Every mornin’ I still set his plate,
still make his grits the way he like ’em—
with extra butter and a pinch of salt.
Folks say, “Mama Rose, you gotta stop,
that boy been gone near three years now.”
But they don’t understand, sugar,
how a mother’s heart work different.
See, when I’m standin’ at this stove,
stirrin’ them grits in slow circles,
I can hear his laugh bouncin’ off these walls,
feel his arms wrap ’round my waist
like he used to do when he was small.
“Mama,” he’d say, “you make the best breakfast
in all of Alabama.”
And I’d swat at him with my dish towel,
tell him to hush up and eat
‘fore it get cold.
Now the kitchen stay quiet,
‘cept for the sound of my spoon
scrapin’ ‘gainst the bottom of the pot.
But I keep cookin’ anyway,
keep settin’ that extra plate,
’cause maybe—just maybe—
if I keep everything the same,
if I don’t change nothin’,
he might find his way back home
to this old kitchen
where love taste like butter grits
and sound like Mama hummin’
his favorite hymn.
They say I’m holdin’ on too tight,
but they ain’t never lost a child.
They don’t know how grief
can feel like the only thread
connectin’ you to what was good,
what was real,
what was yours.
So I’ll keep cookin’, keep waitin’,
keep talkin’ to the empty chair
where my baby used to sit,
’cause this kitchen—
this kitchen remember him too.
Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.
Photo by Lucas Favre on Unsplash
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