Wafer-thin like parchment paper was her aged and petite hands,
In utter awe, I watched them fashion such a dance with magic.
Smooth was the full, ample wooden bowl from a long history,
Of the artful formation of her famously yummy buttermilk biscuits.
Fingers old and steady, so familiar with each curve as she readies
The never varying Ingredients used for years to feed a big family.
I watch her telling eyes as they become glazed over with familiarity,
A task often repeated during the great depression with skilled care.
Into the core of the worn bowl gradually white flour was sifted,
Piled high to make a wonderous treat for her hungry grandchildren.
Crisco arranged into the center of the flour along with buttermilk,
Like a pirouette of dancers, the dough was now artfully formed.
Dough spread narrow with an old and treasured wooden rolling pin,
Then a recent empty metal can cut perfect ring-shaped biscuits.
Sitting on feet, scrutinizing my grandmother’s every graceful move.
Into the old gas stove, they went in rows, as I sat silently watching,
Yearning to grasp each detail of the memory of this cherished day.
I knew we were moving, and I might never see her sweet face again.
Senses lively with the smell of the aroma of the perfect biscuit,
As we waited eagerly for their white tops to rise and grow brown
Eating the labors of her love on a plastic tablecloth, I became sad.
Savory homemade raspberry jam and buttermilk wonders filled me.
Somehow I knew this would be the last dance of her hands for me,
I ate slowly and studied her, loved her, and mourned my loss of her.
by JK Caggiano 9/28/2019