He tells me its name in his native tongue. I do not understand, at first until I smell its fragrance floral and sweet; subtle. Chamomile. He directs me upstairs in broken English; I pray I understand enough. "Grab a bunch, wrapped in newspaper." There in the attic of the duplex that two brothers made homes, I find the dried stems and flower - Grown in the garden that's fed family for 70 years. I bring down a bundle and she, before she lost herself, stands at the stove, boils a pot of water and places a handful into the simmering water. She makes tea. She makes tea for her and I. I take a sip as her cup sits she will not drink. She watches me and smiles. Now years later chamomile will remind me of them; their home and their garden. How fitting This flower holds many salves it is simple yet honored Its humble and enduring. Chamomile becomes the symbol of my roots.
Tag: immigrants
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
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.
The Restless Crescent 