Even when we cannot make it to Thanksgiving.
She will let us come
And visit and pick up leftovers
And inquire about 2 jugs of wine from the grape arbor this summer.
Perfect grapes,
My uncle would be proud.
And she will serve us soup,
Like her mother made,
And her mother,
And the lemon,
Never quite enough
Until it is the perfect amount
The lemon reminds us of
All the meals we cannot remember.
