The smell of ripe Roma tomatoes
Fill the beach house
Grunts for Wimbledon
Sound like a broken record
Coming from the TV
I drape my apron with macaronis on it
Over my ink Juicy Couture

August
Time to jar the tomatoes
Running around the kitchen
Washing the baby tomatoes
With smooth soft skins
Running my knife through the garlic
The scent staining my hands
Mixing the bright red gravy
Forcing my eyes to shut

Grandma holding me up
To reach the pot
Grabbing my hand
Mixing in a “8” motion
Helping me mince the garlic
Into pieces as small as atoms
Smiling
Laughing
Wanting the memories never to end
Sitting down with her
Saying how much work it was
But both of us know it was worth it
Eating our gravy
Today
Tomorrow
Until next year