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To honor my Mother who died this week in October, 1980, I am posting a poem I wrote about her in 1995.

                                                       A Pot of Red Beans

                                 Sweaty,
                                       smelly,
                                              steam-filled
                                disappearing drops of opulence
                                 rising above the heated cast iron pot
                                 signal the diurnal ritual.

                                  Hard,
                                         small beans
                                            striped like pebbles
                                  dancing in bubbling juice
                                   transform into soft, 
                                            succulent, red morsels.

                                    And then I see her.
                                           Her back toward me.
                                     I know it’s her-
                                                thin cotton dress and
                                                       Saturday’s hair-do
                                                            falling on small shoulders
                                       as she stirs,
                                          as she stirs.

                                       I look down at my hands
                                           and see her hands.
                                        I get up to stir a pot of red beans,
                                                                      a pot of red beans.

                                                                                                 Susan Cox Davis