Dad home in a few days,
I sit and do homework.
Time seems to slow
if you focus on words, facts, solving problems.
Interrupted by April, crying.
I rub her back, tell her
I brought him all the bottles.
Told him I think he should take them.
She smiles through tears,
goes out to see Gloria.
Mom’s doing laundry, sorting, folding.
Guess we all have our ways of coping.
Wander into the kitchen, wonder what Dad
would cook if he were home.
Pull ingredients: Onions. Tomatoes. Noodles.
Dice onions evenly. Measure. Pour.
Brown the meat. Pink fades,
a nest of oil fills the pan.
Move the cheese along the grater,
Mom walks in.
She asks how Dad was today,
if I’m ready for school tomorrow.
I say he seemed okay, ignore the school question.
Keep grating.
She says she wants to answer the question I asked
months ago:
why she had children.
I pause.
Keep my head down. Continue.
Chop tomatoes, pieces pool in juice,
seeds swim and scatter.
She says she wanted to do things differently than her own mom,
says she fell in love with Dad fast,
wanted him, only him, to be the father of her children.
She says wanting children is different than having them.
I stir the onions in with the tomatoes.
We scared her. Our need. He was better with us, always.
First layer into the pan. Neatly laid.
Noodles, meat, tomatoes, cheese.
I know I’ve made mistakes, missed a lot, but
I’d like to be your mother now, if you’ll let me,
she says, touching my shoulder.
I shift slightly under the weight of her hand, swallow down
the lump in my throat,
don’t say anything, just cook—
she watches, stays by my side,
I add another layer to the clear glass pan.