Written piece
Rain on Zinc
Sherol Small
Jamaica
About this piece
I wrote Rain on Zinc to show how memory can live in everyday acts. The poem follows my grandmother through her hands, her cooking, and the sounds of our home. Her touch carried soil, thyme, and the rhythm of work. These small gestures became threads that tied me to her.
Zinc on Roof
Before she forgot my name,
She forgot what thyme was called.
She crushed the leaves between her fingers.
held them beneath my nose,
and waited.
The scent arrived.
The word did not.
Before I knew her stories,
I knew her hands.
knotted with soil,
creased from years of washing rice,
softened by steam rising from pots
where callaloo wilted
and dumplings split in broth.
Her palms carried thyme and smoke
earth pressed beneath her nails,
a map of labour etched in skin.
When she braided my hair,
She pulled too tight.
I winced.
She loosened the plait
smoothed it once,
and began again.
Rain rattled the zinc roof,
quick and hard,
a sound stitched into the house
as much as the walls were.
Steam blurred the windows.
She tasted broth from a spoon,
added salt,
then tasted again.
One afternoon she stood in the garden
holding a seedling.
She pressed soil around it,
then lifted it back out.
The hole remained open beside her foot.
After that, things began to drift,
a spoon from the dish rack,
a bowl from the table,
eggs hidden beneath her bed,
each wrapped in newspaper
as carefully as a gift.
I followed her through the house,
quietly returning what wandered away.
One evening she touched my wrist,
lightly,
the way she once tested bread
before sliding it into the oven.
Her apron hung behind the kitchen door.
One pocket held a sprig of thyme.
The other, a seed packet
worn white at the creases.
I slipped my hand inside.
The seam split.
Soil gathered beneath my nails.
Days passed.
The garden stayed watered.
Bread appeared beneath a cloth.
Broth simmered on the stove.
The house continued
in the language she had taught it.
One morning I stood at the counter
with flour on my hands.
The dough resisted.
Then gave.
Outside, a bee moved among thyme flowers.
I crushed a leaf between my fingers.
The scent rose at once.
From the garden,
through the open window,
came the sound of rain striking zinc,
scent and rain stitched together,
a seam of memory I carry forward.