Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears
I looked over to see the wonderful
handkerchief made of white organdy.
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.
With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat.
Sitting next to my grandmother,
her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion, combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of a homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.
The choruses were sung from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often come and go.
However, not this constant memory of
the organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…