I remember the pulpy wood of the dining room chairs,
when I used to palm the back before sitting
for a Thanksgiving meal;
when I never would wonder what I was thankful for.
I know the smell of lunch prepared at last minute,
when seven roaring mouths were needy,
often french fries and Kool-Aid;
a summer hedonistic buffet.
The doughy skin that stamped my lips,
the tangy perfume imbibed by my hair,
these things imprinted my brain;
more than her choice in furniture and cuisine.
It is only now, I realize
her green beans, crochet needles, and advice
satisfied
this hungry child.
Andrea Jazwiecki 2