We found a family recipe, folded away in the same box as

Mince Meat, and German Cherry Soup, and Creole Kisses

But this one was not like the others. It was an artifact

A testament to just how long ago 100 years is for the modern family.

How much is 2 cents of rosen, and where would we find white pith elder bark

Or catnip leaves that hadn’t been prepackaged for pets

Unless we were still growing such things on our farm?

Could we even buy May butter in the store

Or would we first have to buy a cow, and churn the butter ourselves

When the days start to get longer, and the promise of summer

Blows in the warm wind of the evening?

We sat around the wooden box, a treasure box of memories,

Thinking about the little tin of May butter salve we had once

(but we always called it Gramma salve)

How it smelled, and how it was the best for removing splinters

And how it made a cut feel not as raw

With the magic that was in the fat and herbs.

Somewhere, there is another version

In someone else’s recipe box

That was written out by the Amish long after Mrs G L Wilson was gone

A translation for people who were trying to hold onto a bit of the past

Who probably don’t have mutton tallow

Or cook over a slow fire.

And as we tucked the ancient piece of paper away

I thought about how many years a 100 years is

And how farm life in the 1920s was the same as farm life in

1820, 1720, 1620, 1520

But it’s not at all the same as farm life (or city life) in 2020.

I wondered too, if Mrs G L Wilson was here, could she still cook this salve?

Would she?

Or would she say to us “Just buy yourselves some Neosporin.”