Three Line Tales, Unbound

Family Fruit

“The best families have fruit, some sweet like berries and some sour like citrus, a few nuts for variety, the grains of flour holding us all together, a splash of rum to warm the spirit, but the best part is the proverbial cherry on top – that’s you my dear,” Granny smiled as she delicately sliced the loaf.

I smiled up at her, briefly acknowledged her musings, and turned back to the text messages on my phone, oblivious to the allusion she made; Granny always drank while she was baking, and the more she drank, the more she tended to speak in innuendos and vague metaphors and the more people tended to smile at her good natured ramblings ignoring their true meaning.

It’s been six years since Granny baked her last fruitcake and ruminated on the spirits of Christmases past; it’s been seven years since I put on the apron taking my place beside the stove, kneading breads, baking cakes, making candy, and drinking rum – the cherry hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

In response to: Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Seven
Featured Image: Jennifer Pallian via Unsplash (CC0 Public Domain)
Special thanks to  Sonya at Only 100 Words for organizing and curating these Three Line Tales every week. 
Poetry, Unbound

Elegy for Her We Love

I wrote this for my mother when she passed away last July and delivered it at her memorial service.  Beginning shortly before Thanksgiving and carrying on through the New Year, I feel the greatest sense of loss.  The holiday season is always tough, especially when you’re missing one of the things that always made it special.  Reading through the elegy I wrote for her always helps me feel closer to her.  I hope that whomever you’re missing as you read my words that you’re able to feel closer to them as well.


How does one find the words to grieve?
How does one find the words to comfort?
For all the richness of the world’s lexicon,
I am still a pauper’s poet.

Lament; a definition:
A passionate expression of grief or sorrow.
The passion of those
with broken hearts, broken wings, broken spirits.

All too soon the joy that makes us bright is taken;
called to fulfill some ethereal purpose.
We who are left woefully behind
do not bemoan their destiny.

Instead, we grieve for ourselves
and the emptiness their absence leaves.
And, so, I beg with a daughter’s heart,
infuse this poet with your brilliant light.


The things we remember most of her we love
are the special, stolen moments
of laughs, smiles, and twinkles of the eyes
because here we know we are alive.

The things we remember most of her we love
are the words of wisdom shared in stressful times.
The “Sissy, it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
And “Baby girl, it’ll be alright.”

The things we remember most of her we love
are the tender moments that make you feel safe.
A kiss fluttering on the cheek.
A soft whisper of “I’ll miss you. I love you. Be safe.”

Of the things we remember most,
we must always hold
that those we love are not lost.
We only need to look and solace will be found.


We can find solace in the bluesy sway of an Elvis song.
We can find solace in the red-washed sunset sky.
We can find solace in the dewy folds of a rose.
We can find solace in the cardinal fluttering by.

We will find her in the smallest of places
like in the scent of vanilla or taste of pecan pie.
We will find her in the greatest of places
like within the love she gave that in ourselves resides.

For in these majestic moments of the mundane:
There you will see the way her smile lights up her face.
There you will feel the warmth of her embrace.
There you will find she lives on.

In response to Daily Prompt: Missing
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Christmas Luminaries” by Jill111 (CC0 Public Domain)