First Taste
Annis Cassells, Writers of Kern
The Cassells home-place cellar,
earthen-floored,
must-scented, raven-aired.
Grandma Annie Cass-ells
and ten-year-old me,
we heave worn wooden doors,
throw daylight underground,
pick our way down brick slab steps,
stand still, let our eyes adjust.
She leads
bound for thick, unpainted plank shelves
jammed against an uneven patched wall.
She reaches
for a dusty jug
amongst canned pickles, peaches, beets.
She pours
a half-pint jelly jar one-quarter full,
“grape juice.”
She savors
A dark liquid sip
“Ahhhhh.”
She passes
the almost-empty vessel
to me.
She cautions
“Just a little now.
Makes you feel warm inside.”
She stretches
knobby fingers for the rest
as the jar leaves my lips.
We ascend
hugging peach and pickle jars
Silent glances sealing our secret.
©2019 Annis Cassells