pistachios in the basement

on grief, and cooking through it

your teapot is on my bedside table
and suddenly, I am remembering

the pistachios in the basement
how they made you laugh
when you barely had the strength
to lift an arm or take a sip
of water, but you didn't understand
why anything would be kept underground
least of all a pistachio
especially not in Brooklyn

you had barely eaten in days
but you took a bite of the rhubarb cake
that I carried with me on the Amtrak
turning to me with that face 
you loved to make
the one that is still so distinctly yours
blue eyes wide open, mouth closed tight
saying only one word
which was more than enough for me

there is so much that I did not tell you, then
because we had nothing but time
months and years to say our goodbyes
but with your hand holding on to mine
the ages of our skin 
pressed against each other
those years quickly turned into hours, minutes
and I forget to mention 
how my garden is growing
I didn't think about the apple tree 
or the book I want to write
someday, dedicated to you

instead, I sat there knitting a dishtowel
watching the Golden Girls
as you dozed in and out of this life
and whatever comes next
you asked to see my hat
whenever it was finished 
and I agreed
though I have never made a hat
and we both knew 
that it would not be done in time

in the end, we were alone
surrounded by silence
except for your snoring and my crying
and it took all of my strength
to let go, to wake you
feeling your fingers slip away
as I said          I have to go now
and you told me          it is okay
you're okay, and I am too
so I kissed your forehead
telling you that I loved you
just barely hearing you repeat it back
before you closed your eyes
saying you were just going to rest

I find it is difficult, now
to write anything, to say anything
knowing that you are not here
my most dedicated reader
and so I am tired, and aching
pouring all of my energy
into simply staying standing
trying to keep moving forward, or onward
because there is nowhere else to go

I am frozen and trapped
and somehow more expansive than ever
before, opening myself up
to the idea of tenderness
exploring new boundaries
solidifying good habits
I am happy, smiling, laughing
loving hard, just the way you taught me
and still, I am hurting
my heart is ripping itself
into a million tiny pieces
with every breath I take

I am stiff and tense and scattered
putting on brave faces 
to make it through each day
while my pains are growing
my wings are spreading
and what a beautifully tormenting thing it is
how a caterpillar can manage
to become a monarch
how grief can feel like a flower
and a dagger all at once

it is almost two months later
when I find myself holding the cookbook
containing the instructions 
for your favorite pecan pie
the page is torn and covered with sugar
from an eternity of use
bookmarked with my address, barely legible
scrawled onto a recipe card
that you no longer need
and your handwriting stings fresh

reminding me that it is too late, now
for these words to reach you
but even still, I hardly have the heart to say
that rhubarb is not in season, anymore
though the nectarines this year
are perfect

which forces me to think 
about the ways that days 
and hours
years and lifetimes and seasons pass 
fleeting, always, filled
with memories dying
to be caught

---

Written in loving memory of my sweet friend Judy, who will forever be my favorite audience. Thank you for so many years of love and support. I would not be who I am today without you.