I love to dine in restaurants of fame.
No matter where I travel they're the same.

The servers introduce themselves by name
and always make me happy that I came.

Although the food is never what they claim
I tell the cook I'm sure he's not to blame.

My churning gut is difficult to tame.
The restroom's out of order, what a shame.

Grandma’s table stood firm and square,
against her Irish charm.
She chopped the chicken and Friday cod
as though they'd done her wrong.
“Mother MacCree!” was her favorite curse,
when her cleaver missed the  mark.

Grandma’s table could tell the tales
of shenanigans four stories down.
“There’s Jason O’Flannigan, drunk, poor soul,
and Marie, God love her, chasin’ the fool,
waving a fryin’ pan, can ya blame her?
And sure it’s a cryin’ shame, God  forgive me.”

Grandma’s table repaired our clothing,
With motley findings carefully chosen
from handpainted fruitcake tins.
We eagerly sorted through buttons and snaps,
carefully snatched up the nearest match
she sewed on dresses, blouses and hats.

Grandma‘s table is with me now,
the center of daily life.
Stained and scarred on wobbly legs,
a journal of ten thousand days.
Her legacy softens each crevice and nick,
like a cloth of white Irish lace.

I miss handwritten letters
from days before correspondence
degraded to LOL’s And MHO’s;
when families gathered to revel
in the love that settled on each page.
The dimpled envelope,
carefully slit with a paring knife,
passed under every nose.
Each one savoured the lavender scent
and touched the waxen seal
as though it were gold.
We leaned into mother’s shoulders
as she read each word aloud,
as though something unexpected
might flutter off the page.
The penmanship intrigued us,
flowing cursive uprights,
t's that streaked across the page,
like the train that took us to New York
when grandma got sick
and her letters stopped.

Failure arrives
in an oversized  crate.
Its name is stamped
in tall day-glo orange letters
on six sides,
for easy viewing
no matter how you turn it.