Buttered Biscuits

“I’m not sure what we can afford.”

Whispers stopped as I walked into the kitchen,

mawmaw smiled warmly

“Baby, why don’t you start rolling the biscuits?”

I got up on the stool

and starting rolling out the dough

my grandmother stretched flour

water

butter

sugar

like magic over months.

Crumbly butter biscuits

filled our tummies

each autumn morning

as I rushed off to school.

Days turned into a season,

months turned into years,

years turned into a decade.

My mawmaw taught me I was more

more than a poor boy

more than trailer trash.

She hid the pain of starvation

but she fed me.

She taught me I could be someone.