tis the season

lately
i've been drifting backwards through time, stumbling into puddles of childhood memory
i remember being held in her rocking chair,
her poundcake,
her fancy silver hair and her soft, round face,
i recall hours spent in the secret garden-
running and weaving through the concrete rows of greenery and lavender-pink easter blooms,
hanging from the rusted pale blue metal swingset
sawdust piles in the workshop,
crying to papa when the wasps got in the playhouse

i'm drowning in dreams draped in seasonal decorations
longing for one more chance to bring her crushed ice and poinsettas at Christmas,
zweibac and marzipan kisses
please let me burrow under downy quilts again,
after she has convinced Mommy to let me stay home from school
soupie and sunny side up eggs
Nick Jr. watched all day
(i would rub the thermometer rapidly across my clothed legs,
the friction the source of my nonexistent fever)
couldn't help it if i would rather fill coloring books with her
than learn my math equations

mid yoga-pose,
posion seeping from opening pores
i'm inhaling the pumpkin spice of time
longing to be cradled in those arms in her rocking chair just once more

ghosts of chewing bones on the foot of a bed
when nothing else could grace me with comfort,
i'm crawling into it, finding solace and deep sleep at last
a glowing seashell light, shifting colors in the dark
soap operas, sauerkraut, windchimes on the porch

she called me christineshen,
thick accent wrapping around words
teddy baby is barking at mecci
and i'm digging in the freezer for blue bell vanilla ice cream cups
(baby spoons in silverware drawer for that exact purpose)

it's thanksgiving &
me and sister are laughing hysterically,
watching cartoons, stomach down on the 70s brown carpet in the den
sometimes i think i would gladly give up any body part
if i could just hear her scolding my dumhiding again

the gems of my childhood,
like her mervyn rings
are reflecting slivers of light across my consciousness
tragically beautiful
as i awaken to the sound of my own gasping,
images of china dolls, bronze knickknacks, bright array of housecoats
i can taste the maggi in her mashed potatoes
smell the musky familiarity of hide and seek in the laundry nook

Nana, ich liebe dich.



the holidays are going to be rough.