the olive bar

as a child
i remember black olives
in a can,
jumbo, medium, or small,
pitted or non pitted.
my mother pulled them
off the shelf for thanksgiving,
placing them to wobble in a dish
with the word olives painted
across it.
she'd spend an hour or so
stuffing cream cheese in them
if her mother in law was coming
for dinner.
don't eat all the olives
before everyone gets here, she'd
yell from the kitchen,
sweating over
a boiling pot of chicken necks.
there were green olives too.
a muddied green
with a bright reddish
orange strand
of pimento
hanging from where the pit
was removed.
today,
I am overwhelmed by olives.
the shapes and sizes,
the textures.
bitter or less bitter,
some look like grapes
fallen into vinegar. frowning
from the brine
they lay in.
mountains of them stacked
in bins
with the sign olive bar
and their names
in script below
their special lighting.
things have changed
in the olive world, at least
for me.
don't even get me started
on cheese.