Stove-Top Altar

[Verse 1]
The Lodge skillet on the West End stove
Still holds the ghost of every meal I wove
Into the story of that first Atlanta fall,
Your hunger was the only sacred call.
I'd melt the butter down, a liquid sun,
Before my real day had even begun.

[Chorus]
'Cause cooking for you was my kinda church,
Your empty plate, my only holy search.
A simple faith in the oil and the rust,
My stove-top altar gathering dust.

[Verse 2]
Morning light like honey, thick and slow,
Plaiting the bacon in a perfect row.
The pop and hiss a type of quiet prayer,
A hymn I only knew when you were there.
You'd watch me from the door and ask me why,
"'Cause that's how Grandma did it," I'd reply.

[Spoken-Word Interlude]
(A distant, echoing memory of a male voice)
"You keepin' that thing? It's just old iron. Heavy."

[Chorus]
'Cause cooking for you was my kinda church,
Your empty plate, my only holy search.
A simple faith in the oil and the rust,
My stove-top altar gathering dust.

[Bridge]
(Music drops out, leaving only a swelling string pad and whispers)
(Whispered Vocals, layered, rhythmic: bless this house, bless these hands, bless this pan, bless this man…)
And in that kitchen, I was on my knees,
Not for some god that I could never see.

[Outro]
Still got the skillet. Still holds the heat.
Just seasoning it now, for me.