My aunt made the gravy at Thanksgiving dinner,
she alone knew its secrets –
skimming the fat, constantly stirring,
never turning the flame too high,
adding a pinch of this, bit of that,
stirring, stirring, always in motion . . .
the gravy was divine.
Yet now you say we are at the gravy time,
the rewards finally ours to reap.
The struggles, the pain, our despair,
being just the right ingredients.
Granted, you stirred, and stirred,
and stirred some more . . .
you ain’t never learned how to cook.