Tradition Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

I remember how
she would stand
and cut things
in her bare hands.
An onion or tomato
for instance
cut into fine slices
in one direction
then from the other,
would be turned over
for final dicing
into perfectly matched cubes.
Knives sharp as razors,
wielded with such practiced skill,
never even nicked her skin.
A mastered kitchen technique
no one else dared duplicate,
among so many lessons
lost to future generations
and learned so well
at her mother's side.