there are three of us
in the kitchen
that afternoon.
we boil the water
and mix the cheese
and hang silence in the air
to dry.
the fourth is the cause.
she hovers by the sink
and when I turn her way
she is gone.
she is gone,
and yet the tap runs,
and the kitchen holds its breath
in her absence.
the sauce travels
from freezer to pot.
it is crimson like blood,
bubbling with new life;
with the promise
of three days’ resurrection.
(how I wish she’d returned!
held me close
when I felt
the birth of winter,
and soon,
its first casualty;
not a soul among us
retaining the jolly spirit.)
we shovel the cheese
into the shells,
overfilling,
overcompensating,
shredded mozzarella
sprinkling like ash
to top the pan.
when it is done
and the others arrive
we partake in our autumnal Easter.
the stuffed shells,
my favorite pasta,
are bitter on my tongue,
settling into my stomach
with the weight of finality.
and to think,
I’d thought her recipe inferior—
I’d give anything
for another batch today.
In memory of Anita Brown, loving grandmother.
