Eating a pear reminds me of her:
my grandmother half a century ago
in her stalwart putty-grey brick house
with the pear tree in the yard
at 40 Euclid;
the sticky trickle down the heel of my nine-year-old hand
and onto my shorts
recalled as if it were today.
My drooping hydrangeas remind me of her:
brisk scissors in hand
reaping huge white blooms for her kitchen table
at six in the summer morning
from tall, straight stalks.
The smell, too, of my husband’s beer
evokes her neighbourhood drenched in the scent of Seagram’s
two streets away;
recalls how when we visited
the fragrance of yeasty hops,
familiar and constant,
seeped into all our unconscious perception
like a baptism.