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that’s a cliché, but compared
to any other kitchen I’ve ever
spent time in, this one is always
the gathering place. Warm.
Spice-scented. Spilling laughter
and conversation. Today there
is more. Today there is reunion.
And, for some of us, relationships
too new to quite comprehend.
Grandma Marie is at the counter
kneading dough. Aunt Leigh
and Aunt Misty play cards at the table.
Autumn hovers in a corner, trying
to make sense of what these women
mean to her. I know the feeling well.
Might as well try the direct approach.
“Hi, Autumn,” I call across the short
expanse of tile. My feet follow, until
I stand in front of her. “I’m Summer….”
SHE IS WARY
Like a caged cat, escaped,
but unsure of the wild lands
beyond the bars. I understand.
Already, we walk common ground.
It is tenuous turf, riddled with
the rifts and earthquakes of our
personal histories. We confess
scenes. Abbreviated clips.
With her soft Texas drawl
and faux hippie wardrobe,
