Grandma once told me not to defy her,
and while the context for her saying this 
was my quibble with a comment she made 
about how old dad would be if cancer
had not claimed his life all these years ago

the memory conjured is earlier:
helping her prepare potato salad
for my high school graduation party,
the two of us in my parents’ kitchen 
standing on either side of the counter

at least twenty pounds of boiled and peeled spuds
in a pot next to our shared cutting board,	
each of us holding our own knife, ready 
to slice them into a large bowl where she
would season the salad according to

a family recipe she knew by heart. 
I recall being glad to assist her
and went to work with enthusiasm,
quickly piling up potato pieces
before she stopped me (her voice had firmness

like the faintly golden potato flesh 
we were cutting) and told me every piece
needed to be precisely the same size,
whittled into the shape of a half-moon.
I swear to you I gave my best effort 

returning to my task as her sous-chef 
with determined focus, eager to please. 
But grandma’s watchful eye under arched brow
deemed my results to be inadequate. 
More than half a century my senior

she gently placed her hand on top of mine
then said “It’s okay, honey, I’ll finish 
these up on my own.”