Gumbo, late

 

Dried shrimp drift along surface of gumbo

Simmering above low flame where reluctantly

Aromatic steam traces up

Into my clogged nose, opening

Passages, reminding me when

Mother sliced onions with sharp knives.

 

Clenched arthritic fingers struggled,

Chopping white squares, diced so we did

Not notice.  But I did.  Tears long gone

When father, late, came home mad.  Sun

Downing, orange ball behind purple clouds,

Rain coming soon sometime tonight.

 

She, anticipating, cracks crabs,

Careful to remove broken chips,

Lumps of meat plopping into brown

Rued water with cayenne pepper.

Later, our father sips spoonful,

Hot with fillet sprinkled on top.

 

She talked, we listened, he ate.