In my Gram's kitchen,
behind the table,
there is a butter barrel.
One of those big wooden ones you would use in the 1950's.
5 summers ago,
my brother made butter in that barrel.
he got blisters all over his hands.
The butter was disgusting,
but it was loved all through out my family.
It still is.
We never make butter out of the barrel these days,
Gram got a new shiny blender.
hope is a messy thing.
it destroys all forms of happiness.
but it lifts you up in your worst nightmares.
I wish I could say hope is for everyone.
but it isn't.
in time,
we evolved into
racist,
i googled what love meant today.
i don't think anyone loves me.
wikipedia said that
The girl always sits right there at Table 5.
I am the boy who makes food without the order.
I have always been able to do it.
Know what people need to eat, I mean.
Sunny, for instance, lost his mother.
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