I never met Ina Mae
but I own her rolling pin.
It was given me by Barry,
her once next-door neighbor.
His love for her taught me
that love knows no age.
She was always sweet to him
when he needed a friend
and something good to eat.
He, forty years her junior.
She was legendary and long gone
when I arrived on his scene.
Now, when I make rhubarb pie
in summer or chocolate shortbread
in winter, I picture her smiling
on her back porch in the house
next to Barry’s holding up
something on a plate. She has
a gray bun at the nape
of her neck and a flowered
apron that she smooths with weathered
hands. Her rolling pin turned butter
and flour into love, and now I have it,
have had it for nearly thirty years.
With each change, it just keeps rolling
and one day, I will pass it on to you.