Blessed be the bushel,
birthed not of coin but of chance—
won at the altar of fluorescent lights
and ink-daubed cards in a church basement
by Hazel, Patron Saint of Bingo Luck and Generosity.
Let her name be salted like the sea.
It began with a knock,
a neighborly offer not of gossip or sugar,
but of crabs.
Chesapeake blue, still wearing the scent
of bay breezes and spice,
stacked high and hot from the steam.
Not a feast,
but a reckoning of claws and memory.
Not Old Bay—but oh, they were seasoned
with care, with lemon and something ancestral.
Not the best you’ve ever had—
but the first in fifteen years,
and the first since your father
whispered joy over crab paper and beer
on a long-gone summer porch.
The crabs couldn’t be conquered.
The neighbors, already full of friends and flesh,
knocked again.
Do you want more?
Could you have said no?
Certainly.
Should you have said no?
Never.
You said yes
to seconds,
to generosity,
to joy without a price tag.
You said yes to crab-stuffed croquettes,
to cilantro-lime crusts sizzling in a cast iron hymn,
to three meals from twelve oceanic spiders
and a heart full of salt and laughter.
And lo, the fridge was blessed,
and the oil shimmered like the Chesapeake at dusk.
For what was once frozen now became feast,
and what was gifted became glory.
Taymen.
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