Living on the Edge of the Lines Passed Down

Poetry prompt: simply

Photo by Ales Maze on Unsplash

My mother believed
in one-dimensional cures
for complex complaints.
A bandaid applied with a kiss
was a tenderness that served for most.

As a guardian of the ancient line,
my grandmother stood firmly
behind the liberal use of alcohol,
both within and without,
no matter what ailed you.

I carry a set of harvest genes
handed down in a long line
of Bruja queens.
When I travel down
the backroads of my mind,
I contemplate their legacy
as the apple pie on the windowsill
patiently cools its toes.

Basket brought food
is my act of tenderness.
Freshly baked creations,
instilled with a sense of home,
filled with handpicked fruits
from the trees in my yard.