Grandma’s at the stove again,
cigarette dangling from her lips,
ash curling into the grease pan.
She’s swaying, not with the rhythm of life,
but the rhythm of gin—
cheap stuff, bottom shelf,
the kind that tastes like regret.
The eggs crack like tiny explosions,
each yolk a sun
too fragile for this kitchen.
She laughs, her voice rough,
a cackle sharp as broken glass,
like the bottles she used to toss
into the alley behind the bar.
\"Life’s a fried egg,\" she says,
and I don’t ask her what she means.
I just watch the whites spread thin,
bubbling like secrets no one tells.
She flips them with a fork,
jabbing like a boxer past her prime,
fighting an opponent only she can see.
Her hair’s a mess,
her housecoat stained with yesterday’s spills.
The radio hums some sad country tune,
but she’s not listening.
She’s humming her own song—
a hymn to lost lovers,
missed trains,
and the God who stopped answering her calls.
\"Eat up,\" she says,
sliding the eggs onto a chipped plate.
The yolks run like rivers of gold
trying to escape.
I take a bite,
and it tastes like smoke,
like failure,
like something you shouldn’t love but do anyway.
She pours herself another drink,
whiskey this time,
as if the gin’s betrayed her.
\"To hell with it,\" she says,
raising the glass like a saint
blessing the chaos.
And for a moment,
I think she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known.
The pan still sizzles,
a lonely applause for a life
that never learned to sit still.
And Grandma, drunk as ever,
smiles like she’s figured it all out—
or maybe she hasn’t,
but doesn’t care anymore.
She lights another cigarette,
leans against the counter,
and watches the smoke spiral
toward the ceiling.