THE BASKET

Sitting on her lap, I gaze at arthritic hands, as old bent fingers thread string through packets of tightly bunched pine needles. Through her aged lips pass legends of people past, my people, people of my blood. Quietly she shifts position and pulls the thread tight, gripping it with yellowing teeth. Pushing the basket to my nose she tells me to smell. The honey sweet essence fills me. Now eons later her basket sits on my shelf. I hold it to my nose, breathe deeply, and think of her.

Reviews

[SM Davis]

Beautiful. Legacy has its rewards and you honor it deeply here.

[Revolutionary]

so wonderful.I get it!I want a basket of sweet smells.