I asked quietly at her side.
I stood at about her waist,
And looked up at her inquisitively.
She had a sad smile on her face,
One I wouldn't realize was sad
That kind that kinked and twisted in all sorts of fascinating ways,
And glasses 'as thick as the bottom of a coke bottle'-
Or at least that's what Mama said.
"I suppose you could use chicken broth."
She stirred the soup, simple as it was.
The steam fogged her glasses,
But I caught her gaze through the haze.
Steady, the lightest of blues.
"But sometimes, too much of a good thing makes something great turn bad."
I watched my grandma cook,
The Sunday afternoon light flooding our small kitchen.