Survivors

He sits at the table, leafs through the paper, puffs on his pipe,
"My sister was the most beautiful woman. Her hair was fiery red."

She pulls her sweater up to her chin.
"Papa made nice fires. He kept us warm."

He drops the newspaper to the floor.
"My sister made the most wonderful goat cheese.
It was firm, not like the goat cheese in the stores."

She spreads cucumbers onto her cutting board,
mixes spices in the palm of her hand,
sprinkles capers into sweet pickle brine.
"Papa died on a cold November morning,
on the eleventh day of a batch of fourteen-day pickles."

He stands and stretches, warming himself before the fire.
"I definitely have a yen for some goat cheese.
You will have to make us some goat cheese."

She keeps fifty-eight-year-old eleventh-day pickles
in a glass jar in the pantry lest they too be lost.

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© George Miller 2005