Shanna Black.

A funeral tomorrow, my Great-Grandmother. I had a dream that I was asked to write the obituary. I paced the room, heel to toe, unable to find the appropriate phrases. I pressed my back against the kitchen cabinets, flipping through the cook book she published, letting the thick, white wood soak through thin gossamer to cool my flesh. The tribune clattered against my doorstep the next morning, and I flipped to her soft-focus photo. Her obituary was not a well written hymnal depicting her life, it was a beloved recipe. It was fitting, and I smiled, tucking the newspaper into the pages of her book, and resting her inside the cabinet, nestled beside the cinnamon and nutmeg canisters. It was strange when I read her actual obituary, "Bon Appetit!" filled the void on the last line. My darling Grandmother, I don't have the ability to write about your blissful life, it's too early. Ripe wounds, you know?  

But I do promise to cook with you.