He's smiling in the photo soft creases at the corners of his eyes I like to think I was given his smile. This morning I wondered what words i would use to describe him. How his voice, airy with age, greeted me, through that smile and the creases at the corners. He'd say, "we love you." I am grateful, he tried to offer my language of love. What words will tell of the generosity of a man who grew up before he was allowed to be a child? How will I share, fully, the ways he loved and worried in equal parts? He is not verbose ever curious, he holds space for others in conversation. He lacks patience, is quick to anger. But mostly quick to loyalty to his family. He is both mountain and sea Strong and peaceful Stubborn and learning Even when my Nanna forgets who he is and shouts insults, he attempts understanding. "Iola," He'll comfort, "What is it?" She shakes her head and falls behind the wall of her dimentia. He looks at me, creases at the corner of his eyes, "She was such a strong woman. She took care of all of us." Loyal I think I'll say. My grandfather was loyal, and steadfast in his love.
Tag: grandparents
butter and jam
At the counter a plate of eggs and sausage act as sides to the main act; Toast homemade jam butter spread thick, without apology As a child she added extra; lined each slice layered and thick Butter was her language of love Enjoy this without worry, her actions said Your body is perfect when its satiated sit here let me feed you I can hear her in every bite I see her hands in each layer I smile when a lot still isn’t quite right It’s only ever enough for her and for me when our hearts are full
View
on your back porch
you do not see mountains
or ocean waves
the town of Falerna
or the promenade to the sea;
there's no distance
or depth
in this view.
I watch you
sitting -
looking out at
the garden you built
on the land that's your own.
Is it the sustenance,
the stability
you see?
Is it the
family
the existence -
life
are you seeing your reflection?
Answers were never
in your words.
I find them
in that small space
within
the tomato stalks
and sunflowers
He looks out
at the plot of land
the one that
offered the grandest of gifts.
I do not tell him in words;
that's not our shared language.
he gave us life
and in return
i lived.
In the next room
In one room
my grandmother begs for peace.
She cries for her mother,
screams in confusion and pain.
In the kitchen, he cooks dinner alone.
Smelts, fresh bread, salad, a beer.
I watch my grandfather as he moves
quiet and purposeful.
He fries the fish as he holds back tears.
He hears his wife cry out in pain.
His own is angry, frustrated.
He tells me,
“this was not supposed to happen.
This is not how I imagined the end.”
He sits at the kitchen table
the Steelers’ game plays in front of him
He does not notice me watching
as he drizzles hot sauce on his meal.
He turns, sensing me behind him,
tells me to grab a plate.
I do, knowing this is an important offering.
He fixes me dinner,
too many smelts than I can stomach,
salad, and bread.
I begin to eat silently next to him
This is his language of love.
He gets up suddenly
grabs a glass from the cupboard
pours half of his beer in the glass.
He hands it to me.
I drink. I take him in.
I say nothing. Because I know
he needs this. He needs me
to be silent with him, to eat
the food he has made
to accept what love
he has left to give.
To do something
anything.
She calls me tesoro
I help care for my Nanna.
My father and uncle hold her
as my mother and I clean her.
She sits and cries,
“You should not see this, Marisa.”
“I’m happy to be here Nanna. I need to be.”
“I want to kiss you.”
I lean in, place
my forehead against her lips.
We sit like this for a moment.
The quiet is treasure,
just as she’s called me her’s
all my life.
And just like that,
the moment flees.
The chaos begins again.
Love in its many forms.
Suffering, too.
The Restless Crescent 