NaPoWriMo 2017: #7 (a fortuitous poem)

Lost & Found.

The kitchen towel draped
over shoulder, swaying
to the rhythm of a whisk,
bobbing to the beat of a spatula;
the towel is there, neither for sweat
nor the quick drying of working hands
but as a reminder, of loss
of the father
who wore a similar towel,
draped over the same shoulder;
a reminder of his recipe
for pecan candy,
a sweet, slow death by diabetes,
but a death worth dying;
his most coveted recipe
once told in hushed voice,
from his lips,
to son’s hands,
to a yellow legal pad
the page ripped away,
folded,
and tucked
into the secrecy of safe keeping,
and lost when the father was,
the same time the runaway son
found a new, northern home,
and later a wife,
and later still, found himself
as a father, looking into the eyes
of his son, mirror like and hypnotized
by the movement of a kitchen towel
swaying and bobbing,
and the metallic music of whisk and spatula
as he waits for breakfast
and to one day be given
the recipe
to his father’s best pancakes.

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