Preservation

A poem about my grandmother's kitchen and memorizing a moment

The sweet smell of freshly cut pineapple hung in the air.
I watched her slice, slice, slice
slowly, purposefully, again and again.
I breathed in the syrupy scent
as her knotted hands struggled to hold the slippery fruit.
She sensed me standing in the doorway
and she turned to see me
watching her.
She smiled with a mouthful of teeth that were all her own,
in a kitchen that would, all too soon,
not be hers.
With only seconds to work with,
I tried to memorize each laugh line,
each age spot, each wrinkled detail
of the ageless beauty radiating from her
wonderfully eighty-seven year-old face.
As she turned back to her task,
I closed my eyes
and inhaled.
This smell,
this fruity perfume,
this aroma from the kitchen
would forever hold the key
to my memory
of her.