I drop the lid back on the pot.
A satisfying clang cut off the steam.
I pause to listen for gran’s trot.
Afraid of her discovering my scheme.
I turn around a smug smiled face
And freeze in place as does my sass.
You lean against the door with grace,
And notice the traitorous chilli glass.
Understanding dawns in steel blue eyes
Mischief and panic in fast succession.
“How often have you used the spice?”
You sheepishly ask a vital question.
I stare at my feet and can’t remember.
“About five times.” —I am sincere.
Your shoulders slump in mute surrender.
“Me, too.” Your eyes meet mine with fear.
Gran’s face bright red; she wipes off sweat,
And raises her brows at you and me.
We share the stare of maternal threat.
I’m shrugging at you, and you grin at me.
Luck has it that this threat was never fatal.
And ever since, chilli is a table-stable.
Writing for Healing 