Grandma (One Day is Not Enough)

I know you’re still here but I’ve already lost you—
you are not the same person who handed out hugs
as if your arms couldn’t function without being around us;
you argue now like an obstinate three-year-old
and spout words that sting till tomorrow’s sunrise,
though by then you’ve already forgotten them.

I miss those days when I’d curl crying in my bed
swallowing the salty remarks my mother had thrown at me
and being able to wipe away the tears only
because I thought of you, kisses bursting from your lips,
taking us to the beach, asking us what we wanted
for every meal the week before we arrived,
sharing your own tears on my cheeks when we left.

Every summer you took us shopping at the best bargain stores
and outfitted us in the newest styles for the school year
and taught us how to pick parsley and basil from the herb garden
and how to sauté garlic, onions, and carrots for the marinara
and how to boil steamers for just a few minutes,
then dip the clams in butter and let them slide down
our throats, their taste lingering of the sea you’ve always loved.

We exchanged letters for years, your scrawling cursive writing
filled with your beliefs about my schooling,
my boyfriends, and your Catholic upbringing,
touching my heart with your love just as much as
the gifts and cards you sent for my birthdays
all the way into my adult years.

I know you’re still here, but I’ve already lost you
and when I think about the phone calls I forget to make
or the confusion in your voice when we speak,
I recall my childhood, your ever-affectionate presence
the sweet happiness that I forever longed for,
and though I feel old and alone and sometimes lost along with you,
I still carry your Italian black hair on my head,
your sauce recipe in my memory,
and the remnants of your soul within my soul.

How I Spend My Saturdays

Once upon a time, Bruce and I used to sleep in until almost ten. We’d enjoy each other for a little while and share a shower, then inevitably head over to the local LePeep, which changed each time we moved—four times in our first four years together. He always got a skillet or a combo of eggs, bacon, peasant potatoes, and pancakes, and I used to order the eighteen-wheeler, which had French toast, the same famous potatoes, eggs, and a side of some type of pork that I would quickly shove over to him. We also loved to order the fancy $3 drinks, hot chocolate for me and a mocha for him. By noon, we were stuffed and ready to enjoy an afternoon of going to a movie, walking around the mall, or picking up a few groceries for our mid-week, mostly “freelance” (make what you want) meals. Then we would go out for dinner—our favorites were Chili’s, Old Chicago, or Noodles and Company. We might rent a movie after dinner, stay up late, and repeat the whole process on Sunday.

How foreign it all seems now. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had three babies, because I’m old, or because I’m too set in an early-morning routine, but even if my girls sleep past 6:30, there’s no way I ever will again. Now I might drink a glass of water while I cuddle on the couch with Mythili or remind the girls relentlessly to go potty and get dressed while I sip coffee and fix up a breakfast of homemade pancakes. (A restaurant for breakfast? Paying $3 for a cup of Joe? My flaxseed whole wheat w/applesauce pancakes beat anything I’ve ever bought at LePeep, and I make my own “mocha” with a scoop of hot cocoa in my morning coffee). Then we might linger before our first activity, which could include anything from going to Target to buy yet another birthday gift for a party Isabella’s invited to, taking the girls to a swim or skating lesson, or visiting the library to pick up the books we have on order and the movies we’ll need to entertain the girls so we can have ninety minutes of peace. We’ll come home and fix sandwiches with our homemade bread and set out our grass-fed beef for a meal that we chose from a recipe and whose ingredients we put on the grocery list a week ago. The afternoon will be filled with girls playing outside in the cul-de-sac or whining about using the computer or, like today, in a line of cars around a Lowe’s waiting to pick up Girl Scout cookies, and we’ll finally settle everyone down for a pre-dinner bath and movie, a delicious home-cooked meal, and a nice early bed time. Bruce and I will stay up “late” watching our own Netflix movie, hitting the hay around ten.

Just like they always say: having a child changes everything. Having three makes you change your whole routine, your whole attitude towards what’s important, where your money goes, and how you spend your Saturdays.

Baker’s Dream

Dear melt-in-mouth,
decadent,
softly moist,
rich and heavy,
applause-inducing,
smiles for miles,
limitless thanks,
not-a-crumb-left,
beautiful, loving,
flourless cake:

thank you for making
everyone’s gloom
wash away for
ten delectable bites,
for leading to
jokes and comments
that will tingle my mind
for weeks to come,
and for giving us all
a taste of true happiness.

Love,
Baker’s Dream

Time

Most times I try to feel the sun above
but sometimes the clouds hang over our love
and sometimes I forget your sugary taste
while life’s problems surround me in their haste
but when I take the time to truly breathe
in my veins you fill me with pure relief
and this moment becomes like the first time
and just as it was then it is divine
I ask myself why I’ve waited so long
to sing your name in this glorious song,
to share with you the ever-fervent fire
that ignites this time of our sole desire.

Your answer whispers to me through the day:
With few words, this is what you’ve tried to say.

Sovereignty

If you tease me with this for long
I fear that you will guide me wrong—
inside my veins the blood burns hot
inside my brain images rot

Soothing as you appear to me
stinging my recent memory
you give much less than what you take
and haunt the hallows in your wake

I do not know why you appear
and in my thoughts are always near
you are a debt as Dunbar states
one who at no time hesitates

To remind me of your cruelty
your lack of faith, your sovereignty—
but I will not give in to you
for him, our love, I will cut through.

Eighth Grade Science

I used to think that you and I were a covalent bond,
sharing our electrons in a Venn-diagram link
that could not be broken or shared with another atom.

But we are grown now, and I see the difference in us:
we are truly ionic, not connected in a way that we cannot break,
but handing electrons back and forth, giving and taking.

We are charged, sometimes positive, sometimes negative,
hovering around each other like fireflies in the forest,
our bond allowing us to gain strength from one another.

Concessions

From the Latin concedere, to completely yield

1999-2002

stop here and I will upsell you
a giant buttery tub as wide as a hug
a soda that weighs as much as your baby
so much candy you might puke later

but you’ll enjoy your theater experience
that much more because I suckered you in
because you yielded to your desires
and footed $25 more than what you paid for tickets

and as you hand me your card or cash
I’ll ignore the stench of BIB’s and
the slippery tractionless popcorn-filled floor
and the palm oil that permeates the air

smiling all the while as I earn my $7.50,
paying my way through college with this
thankless job, knowing that I can concede
to your audacity because one day I won’t have to.

2008-2010

my era of admission has come full circle
as step after step I tread as carefully as a crane
just like the paper ones that dangled,
pale blue and innocent, along the church aisles

now both of us have shed our naiveté
and the truth seeps from our souls
through black and white keyboards,
drunken words, and the wrath of darkness

in my mind I have seen both sides of this story
each one conceding to the other in a series
of twisted images that I can neither sleep through
nor accept when my eyes, paralyzed, pop open

yet, from this moment I recapture the past
and though I cannot change the path I led it down
I see you in the shadows as if for the first time
knowing that I can completely yield to our love.