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.
Revised
