By Samarrah Fine

The windy roads of the Berkshire mountains
lead me home.
Tree roots dig deep into brown, rocky earth
Leaves sway softly in the crisp air.
Frolicking creeks hide in and out of view
from the country road.

My grandmother in the yellow-walled kitchen
chopping potatoes.
Sturdy, steady strokes.
She moves on to the carrots
chop, chop, chop.
The brown stew simmers.
The warm smell of meat and bay leaves fills the air.

I go to temple with my grandmother to celebrate the new year.
The blue prayer book is cool and smooth on my lap.
We sit in silence, our breath heavy and slow.
Outside the high window the green treetops dance in the wind,
A witness to the silent communion.

Crossing state lines, I am in New York.
Far from green Massachusetts, far from brown stews.
In my tiny Manhattan kitchen
the water is boiling on the stove and I am chopping potatoes.
My sturdy, steady knife strokes a simple reminder
of the women of my past.

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