Ooooh that smell
Not really quoting Skynyrd
Smell of life
Merari, my Gran called it
Dill
Chicken vegetable soup
Fresh merari
Tossed on top of the pot
For the last five minutes of bubbling
Hot kitchen, cold winter
But now
Evening in Florida swamp
Smell it growing wild
Well, seed pods begging to be harvested
Must have blown out of my neglected pots
When I took time off from growing herbs
Planted themselves
And now
An aromatic memoir greets me
In the soft gray
End of day
Bringing the ghosts of Gran and Mom
Aunt Cee and Aunt Are
Bumping hips
While dancing around each other
In a small kitchen
With a huge pot
Forgetting I have no pockets
Because women’s clothing
Usually doesn’t include that all-important
Piece of fabric
(Can’t have it interfering with the hip line
Of a voluptuous woman)
But I reach for my pouch
So inconvenient to draw attention
While fumbling with the drawstring
Just to feel the reassurance of
My pocket deities:
Acorn, feather, sea shell and fiery bloodstone
Imbued with my essence
From touching them with
Invisible fingertip oil
Touching, touching
Wanting to keep the ghosts of family
Singing and laughing
Forever happy
Keep those ghosts forever
But soon they fade
And I vow
That tomorrow
I will search the sunlit swamp
For a sprig of dill
Add it to my female pocket
And one day call upon
The memory
Once again
From the scent of an earthen gift…
© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Dill, Wikipedia
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