Why I Had to Have the Grill
Because all it takes is the scent of charcoal
smoky and stinging in humid air,
and I'm ten again, Saturday night, Hee Haw
on TV, and Mom's got potatoes baking
in the oven, each one wrapped in foil like a present,
waiting for butter or Cheez Whiz and bacon bits,
and she's slicing cucumber into little pieces
for my salad, no tomatoes, and Dad's
at the grill, tending the fire like ancient people must have
when fire was something to be guarded, even worshipped,
and I'm waiting, hungry, thinking how good it feels
to be hungry when a steak is almost ready
and will soon be medium, still pink inside,
on your plate, just the way you like it,
and nearly fifteen years later, I am keeping an eye
on the hot dogs that are plumping and blackening in the heat,
gaining confidence to move soon to hamburger, chicken, steak--
and I know the charcoal scent will linger
in my hair, in the house, and I close
my eyes against the stinging smoke,
and it is summer, and there is no year in the date.
© 2002 Renee Carter Hall |