salt 

my grandmother kept a salt & pepper grinder
on her dining room table. 
her apartment was small.
it smelled like sun & smoke. 
the blue arm chair.
the glass coffee tables & glass bowl of candy.
it was like visiting a church 
or museum. i remember the sensation
of twisting that grinder over top
a plate of green beans & pasta, how 
i could feel the crystals breaking
into smaller pieces. i knew very little
about my grandmother. i wrote
a poem about her in fifth grade as if
she was already dead. i called her once
to talk about pearl harbor 
for a school project
& she said she learned about the attack while she was
sitting on the end of her bed
alone in her room.
i never saw her fill the salt & pepper grinders
but they were always full. her thin 
tree-root fingers
wrapped around the wooden part 
that twisted. what did alone
mean to her? the flecks of salt 
twinkling on a plate. she completed this act
everyday alone in her apartment.
crinkling sound. crash of rock.
over root vegetables & chicken breast
& salmon cutlets & roasted potatoes.
her palm full of rocks
filling the inside of the grinder
in the morning? at night? just 
for when we visited? her bathroom was
a soft pink & i would go there to escape
ambling conversations between her & mom. 
looking at my face
in the mirror i would try to see
traces of her. alone with the cardinals?
alone with the rocks of salt?
alone with the ghosts of neighboring apartments? 
outside were holly bushes 
that i liked to carefully 
pick the leaves off of & if she was nearby 
she would say careful careful &
i would say yes i am careful.
that kind of careful marked the position
of each bust & sculpture on her cabinets.
it is morning & she is filling 
the grinder & she is frying
a single egg & she is opening the curtains
of the sliding glass window.
there are stray fragments of salt
on the counter & she is sweeping them
onto the floor
to disappear. i want to write
about her now & always
as if she's alive.