| |
|
|
|
| |
Pulling Taffy
with Mom
We
stretch out the pearly white
cord, forcing the candy taut
in both directions. Our hands meet
again in the middle. We tug. Its texture
thickens and tears. Mom tells me
how she used to do this
at Lewis County Mennonite youth parties,
a collection of shy girls in prayer
coverings
and guys smelling of cows
they just milked, pulling until the taffy
is stiff and brittle. We cut. Small
pieces
scatter on the kitchen counter.
Mom says that after she cut her hair,
turning the back of her cropped curls
on those bishops’ teachings about
length
and beauty, she could reach the high
notes
of hymns better. As the sweets harden,
Mom recalls how she and her siblings
would meet in the haymow after a day
of cutting and driving tractors.
They’d build a labyrinth of bails
and travel this maze until the sun
dropped
below the paneless windows,
until she crawled holes through
her thick wool stockings. We take a bite
and smile over a bowl full
of tastes, stony and sweet.—Debra Gingerich,
Sarasota, Florida, is author of Where
We Start (DreamSeeker
Books, 2007) the collection of poetry
from which this poem comes. “To My
Yugoslavian In-Laws,” another poem
in the collection, was read by Garrison
Keiller on “Writer’s
Almanac,” August 23, 2007.
|
|
|
