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Relativity Stephen Gardner
In the antique oak cupboard there’s one Mason jar with pickles, gray-green now and surely soft, his great-aunt cooked and packed forty years ago. She stirred the brine with uncommon love. She stoked the pot to boiling. She knew that when her body lay turning back to soil, someone would hold this cold and murky soup and resurrect her wrinkled face and toothy smile and she would leap up to earth, her cherry 50's Buick warm in the driveway and humming its eagerness to roll I-95 to North Carolina, where the back roads are dusted with PCB’s and the Stuckey’s all sell without apology those shabby pecan logs that stick between your teeth and hang the taste of bitter shell on the tongue. |
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