Family Reunion

My grandmother's food. I remember the feel of the pasta on her platter, and the way we'd eat in shifts around her kitchen table.

The sunflowers wave

as I step outside to cut parsley

for the small red potatoes I've

steamed for supper.

When I miss my family, I

cook their food.

I mince onions and saute garlic

in olive oil, add basil and tomatoes

and simmer my

grandmother's spaghetti sauce.

I bake the pineapple cookies my

Irish grandmother made

when she traveled by train

to visit, sleeping on

the pull out bed in my room.

Tonight I'm making my mother's

parsley potatoes. As I

chop parsley leaves into ribbons,

I tell them: you're going into

my favorite potatoes, and

I'll drench you in butter and salt.

You'll feed my son who says

he's never full after he returns

from soccer practice. The cat

may creep on the counter

and steal a bite.

I'll savor you, and

feel my mother with me.

I miss my mother.

I hope not to miss the wonder

of you – of salted potatoes in butter,

basil in olive oil, pasta soaked

in a silky sauce.

It's so easy to forget the wonder

of being alive.

With each meal, it

is simple



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