lenten journal: symbol

Today marks two months since my mother died. This poem found me today.

the old cast iron skillet
has soaked up a cookbook
of stories, handed down
from Grandma to you
and then to me.
just salt—no soap—
to clean it; i run my hand
around the side and I
feel the soft oil that has
seasoned the metal,
remnants of memories
and meals, fried chicken,
and bacon by the pound.
these days it feels as heavy
as my grief, even as I scoop
the saved bacon grease
back and watch it melt
in the gentle heat of
the gas burner. I lay the
strips in the skillet one
by one, and the room
smells like family,
like joy—complete when
Ginger takes a bite
and says, “This is almost
as good as your mom’s.”

Peace,
Milton