I come from a line of women with cotton house dresses,
bibbed aprons, flour and butter on their hands,
the smell of vanilla as they smudged kisses on my cheek.
I stood in the playpen, watched Winifred turn fruit into jam,
Ruby cut shortening into pastry, Matilda’s belly push
tight against her apron. I wondered what she swallowed.
Evelyn, Amelia, Lena – named for German ancestors
or women in the Bible. Names that matched
their fine bone china, starched linen tablecloths
and scrubbed kitchen floors. Women who stood
tall under wide-brimmed hats in church and sang out of tune.
Women who told stories while they shelled peas,
snapped ends off beans.
They came from a line of women with names
like Lucy, Margaret, Maud – sisters who never married,
teachers and a nurse who traveled and painted.
These women loved Latin and books, a trip to the city
for leather boots, a drive in the cutter.
They stood outside the kitchen,
dressed in long skirts, white blouses,
tucks and gathers cinched tight as corsets.
We inherited their piano, paintings, books and rings.
I search photos to find the one my daughter resembles.
