Sitting in Colorado
I think of my parents sitting
in Illinois,
how tonight in different
kitchens together we savor
the Slovenian sweet bread
of my father’s childhood,
the sweet bread
his mother would make—
savor not just the taste
but the memory of the taste,
the paper thin crust,
the ground walnuts,
the honey.
Savor not just the loaf
but the memory of the hands
that once made the loaf,
the happiness as we ate it,
the communion in the joy.
Tonight, I break the bread
into tiny pieces, eat it slow,
imagine us at the same
loving table now
and years and years ago.
We are alone, not alone.
The bread tastes
like family, like home.
If you are unfamiliar with this Eastern European nutroll delicacy (pronounced puh-TEET-suh), you can read more about it here.
Posts Tagged ‘parents’
Potica
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, daughter, food, grandmother, memory, parents on July 23, 2021| 2 Comments »
After Six Days of Holding It Together
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, daughter, grief, impermanence, parents, poem, poetry, tears, vulnerability on July 25, 2019| 9 Comments »
It wasn’t until I had passed through security
and found my way into Concourse B
that I found myself sinking into a chair
across from a giant Vienna Beef poster
and began to weep. And once they began,
the tears wouldn’t stop. Nor did I try
to stop them. I had wondered in the ICU
where they were. Had wondered
again at my parents’ home. It was strange
to be so level—not cold, really, and not numb,
but oddly steeled. It was a relief, really,
to sob into my hands. To let grief take over.
To be a maidservant to fragility.
What a gift to be sideswiped with the truth
of our vulnerability. What a blessing
to be baptized in my own helplessness.
Over the loudspeaker, they announced
that a plane was delayed. As if any of us
really know when we’ll depart, when we’ll arrive.
When the tears dried, I stood. Walked
to my gate recalibrated. Called my parents
again because I could. Because I could.
In the window, I smiled at my watery reflection,
how it almost wasn’t there at all.
In the Northwestern Hospital ICU
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, father, hospital, icu, love, mother, parents, poem, poetry on July 21, 2019| 4 Comments »
And as my mother steeped toward slumber,
her thin body wired to monitors,
there, surrounded by incessant beeping
and the red and green mountains and valleys
of pulse and pressure and the slow drip
of IV tubes finding her veins, yes,
there as her speech became mumbly and her
eye lids heavied, my father leaned over
the rails of the hospital bed to smooth
her gray hair and kiss her lips and whisper
I love you. And she rallied a smile and
whispered it back. And there, in the sterile room,
with all its instruments of cardiac measurement,
there was nothing, nothing that could chart
how open my heart, how—unable to hold
all the love I felt for them both—it broke
in the most beautiful way. How I prayed
it would stay that open, that broken, that whole.
**
Dear friends, thank you for all your good wishes. After having a heart surgery go wrong a few days ago, my mother was released today from the ICU and is now resting at home, and though she is not out of the woods yet, she is not in imminent danger. It’s been very scary and I thank you for all your thoughtful messages and prayers and thoughts. Rosemerry
*
That Almost January Evening When I Was Six
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cinderella, family, magic, new year's eve, parents, poem, poetry on January 29, 2019| 4 Comments »
We sat around the oval kitchen table
and made hats out of ribbons
and paper plates, and we piled them high
with golden grapes and fake flowers.
I remember thinking how great, how magic it was
that something we’d use for dinner
transformed into something so elegant.
Today I stared hard at a paper plate,
as if I could return to that state of delight
and easy grace. Was this how Cinderella felt
when she gazed at the pumpkin the day
after the ball? Wondering if the magic
happened at all? Weighing the shape
of reality against her dream?
Yes, I tell myself, it was real,
the glittering fruit, the beauty I felt,
the laughter around the table.
And it was a dream, the way my parents
made it seem as if we had it all.
And when the clock struck midnight,
none of the magic left at all.
On Christmas Eve
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, daughter, hymn, parents, poem, poetry, singing on December 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
We sat in the pew
furthest back in the church.
My father would hum all the hymns
and I’d lean closer to him and hum along,
then lean toward my mother
and sing with her the words—
I swayed between them like a metronome,
humming, then singing, then
humming, then singing.
How giddy I was, grateful to be the girl
between them. I did not yet know how
difficult it was to be a parent.
I only knew how good it felt
to be loved, how safe I felt between them,
how delighted I was to find in myself
some part of each of them,
so delighted that even now,
over forty years later
and a thousand miles away,
I remember that night
and begin to sway.
Looking at my Parents’ Wedding Album on their Fiftieth Anniversary
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged parents, poem, poetry, wedding anniversary on August 27, 2016| 2 Comments »
They look so happy in black and white—
my mother with her short and fitted skirt
and my father, trim and handsome,
escaped from his tux.
They are running to my grandfather’s car,
the one they will crash that evening,
but at this moment, they are still
in innocent bliss, dodging the handfuls of rice
hurled at them by friends.
They are out of focus, a blur of joy,
running hand in hand right off
the ragged-edged pages toward
that aqua blue Ford convertible
and all the other colors life has to throw them.
And I Said, No Thank You, But
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, loss, mom, moving, parents, poached eggs, poem, poetry on December 29, 2012| 4 Comments »
All these years
I have coveted
her egg poacher,
yolks perfect every time,
the one we first used
in the small kitchen
with the black and white
tiles and then in the bigger
kitchen with oak floors
and over thirty years later
in a kitchen
only an hour away
from my kitchen,
but today when
she offered me
that Oster egg poacher
as we packed
her other things
into boxes going with her
a thousand miles away,
I knew all
I really wanted
was for her to be the woman
poaching the eggs
those yolks
spilling gold
in a kitchen close enough
we might eat
our breakfast
together.
Watching the Words Turn to Clouds
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged letting go, love, parents, poems, poetry, separation on February 12, 2012| 6 Comments »
I cannot find
the right way
to say goodbye
to you and so
I watch your car
drive away
and only
then say
the impossible
please
don’t go.
And Could It Be More
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breathing, dad, daughter, dreams, love, parents, poems, poetry on February 11, 2012| 1 Comment »
In the other room I hear
my father snoring
and imagine how
he’s stood before
outside my door
and listened
to my tides of sleep
with, could it be,
as much love for me
as I have now for him—
his shore is my shore,
our heart sails
open.