The Root Cellar

“Go get some green beans,”

Grandma would say.

Doom. Fear. Quick feet and hands.

It always scared me.

Damp dirt floors.

Musty darkness.

Hidden corners and spiders ready to pounce.

A tomb.

And yet bursting with life.

Plum jelly, green beans, tomatoes.

Jars of nourishment that took weeks

of sweaty work to preserve.

A garden of mummies.

“Go get me some stewed tomatoes.”

Only once I tried to lie.

I stood outside the door,

and seeing a menacing spider,

told her there weren’t any.

She wasn’t fooled.

She knew every jar the way a squirrel

knows every nut he’s stashed.

How could you not when there are

ravenous mouths to feed and you

know how to take those bones and

make them live again?

The tomb. The resurrected garden.

Grandma’s only magic trick.