Grandma's Lagniappe

She folds it into a soft square,  

her hands weaving intention with linen,  

a secret stowed beneath the everyday—  

the chocolate wrapped like a tiny prize,  

or the postcard, an old carnival scene,  

its cracked edges whispering other years.  

Napkins billow like quiet sails beside  

the plates, unsuspecting in their silence.  

And there she is, conjuring these small  

delights, as if a meal itself cannot  

contain enough of her affection. This  

ritual of hers, like slipping a coin  

into the pocket of time. We unfold  

her surprises, unwrapping her kindness,  

the sweetness melting or a place captured  

on paper pulling us far from the table.