
“¡Qué será, será!”
In one room in my head
my mother’s mother
sits with me on her knee
at the kitchen table
playing patience.
Elsewhere, I stand on a stool
beside my father’s mother
helping her to mix the cake
she will later bake
in the coal-fired oven
of the black, cast iron stove.
My mother’s father
sits before the television.
He leans back in the chair,
raises his foot so he can’t see
the adverts on the screen,
and puts his fingers in his ears.
My father’s father lies in bed,
downstairs, in the middle room.
His dog lies beside him,
licking his hand.
We all wait for the death
that has haunted him
since he was gassed
in World War One.
Clare sits at the computer,
following the figures
that track the pandemic.
I sit here watching her,
humming softly to myself:
“¡Qué será, será!”
Those first few lines took me straight back to days spent at my Grand mothers. Rock cakes were the speciality, probably more due to our mixing skills, or lack of them, than the taste.
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Thanks for the comment! Every time I “helped” my grandmother cook, we put “my” piece in the oven. I grew up loving the kitchen and how to cook in it. Corn on the Cob tonight: Peaches and Cream variety, fresh from the farm
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