When I use her stoneware cups, mottled shades of mustards;
the cups she served rice puddings in, and golden homemade custards,
and when ghosts of childhood memories into my dreams appear,
then in my heart I know, Christmastime is near.

In a stately Philly row home did my Grandmother abide
“A gift from dearest Father”, when she was just a bride.
Christmas at Whitby Avenue, memories are best there;
chasing brother, cousins, little sister up and down the stair.

A snowman in the yard, what’s that in his mouth?
A big, fat, long, two-buck cigar we stole from Uncle Ralph!

Of all the worldly goods I own, gifted by Grandmother;
the silver, china, books, and more,
my favorite is none other than these golden stoneware cups.

They remind me of her sense of humor; she’s sly as a little fox.
When her custard recipe I begged, she winked and said, “it comes in a Jell-o box!”

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