I have clear memories of one particular morning, but I'm sure it happened many times. She would look after us when my Mum and Dad were at work.
Frying Ham
The thick pan, blackened by its constant use,
spits with fat; hot from the blistering flame
I stand, expectant, watching while it
hisses, crackling as the sallow winter
sun peers in to see the gravid slice of
frying ham dropped; carefully, quickly
leaving my grandma's work-worn tender hands.
She asks me to stand guard but not to touch
as, attending to other household tasks,
she bustles to another room and I,
with salivating mouth, observe pink flesh
turn slowly darker as the shrinking meat
releases scents that on my brain imprint
the loving memory of my days with her.
The ham is turned and soon it will be mine,
resting in sliced brown bread that magically
appears, absorbing salty, pungent juice.
From the plate expectant hands lift slowly
to the open mouth, closed eyes, the easy bite
through sodden bread, teeth tear the supple ham.
I lift my eyelids and I sadly know
that fifty years have passed me by since then
and I will never eat such tender meat
or feel my grandma's special love again.
Tim Fellows 2018
This work started as a piece of prose written at Ian Duhig's workshop at Stones Barn in April 2018. I then changed it to a blank verse format as part of a Read to Write exercise based on Wordsworth's "spots of time".
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