Great-grandmother’s Frying Pan <br /> <br /> <br />Thinking it mine, I seldom think it hers. <br />She had it first. Wedding present? New? <br />When? A hundred years? No, more than that. <br />Its use not altered in that time, or much. <br />It’s good for chicken, eggs, bacon or beef. <br />No. No eggs now. Too large for one, alone, <br />But not for widow with two small boys, alone. <br />They kept chickens, so there must have been eggs, <br />The ones not sold for cash. Times were tough. <br />Without bitterness, (much) , both sons said as much. <br /> <br /> <br />I might be forgiven not thinking of her. <br />We never met. Missed by thirty years. I know <br />She lost a husband young, malaria, <br />And then died younger than I am now, cancer. <br />Was her stove wood or gas? Wood, let’s guess. <br />Mine’s electric. Would she think that made it less? <br />The pan still works as well, or near as well. <br />There’s skill in skillet. I possess her pan, <br />Still, it didn’t come with inherited skill. <br /> <br /> <br />It’s all I have of hers, all any have, perhaps. <br />There was a photo. (Stern!) It might be found. <br />Nothing more of her life to show, a pan, <br />Unless you count the children, greats and gran. <br />It’s mine for yet awhile, a frying relic, <br />A fine relic, but who will claim it next? <br /> <br /> <br />R. G. Bell 2009<br /><br />R. G. Bell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/great-grandmother-s-frying-pan/
