Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Grandma, revisited.

As my mother is here, and as we're closer than ever, and as we are still remembering, discussing, memorializing my grandmother, it's time to post this poem.  I wrote it while I was making her meatball recipe for my favorite cousin.  He was the first family - other than my mother - that I've seen since she passed away, and it was healing and it was wonderful.  She left so much good behind her, it's almost hard being sad.


I know things my grandmother knows.

I know the icy plunge of warm hands into cold meat, squeezing and turning the bread, the eggs, the cheese.

I know that the 26th day of the month brings a celebration of love.

I know the pain, and the joy, of newborn babies: a son, a daughter, a son.

I have put the knot in the yellow scarf.

I have tied the bow of the pink apron over my back.

I have loved a good man.

I have fastened the pearls.

I have stood over the stove as she did, frying dough and tossing into waiting little hands: my son, my daughter, my son.

I know love. Love from the family that made me, and love from the family I made.

I know the things that my grandmother knows.      

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