THE SCENT OF THINGS

 

What I disliked most about moving into all those

different places during childhood -- houses

of family, friends of friends, or rank strangers --

was that nothing ever smelled familiar.

The dark scarred wood of dressers and doors

breathed silently in and out, the salt-grease aroma

of food arose from pots and pans long ago

scorched and settled into their particular seasoning.

Even water boiling was somehow not the same,

the grimy tea kettle hopelessly shrieking out of key.

Soap, perfumes and perspiration clung to every fold

of fabric, laundered or not, the musty basements

and dry dusty attics, the damp funk of dogs

had claimed their territory years before we arrived.

Most days I felt that I had stumbled onto a stage set

without the benefit of lines, or even motivation.

Most days came and went with neither incident

nor reason, the cloudy stove clock ticking.

The air outside felt closer to the truth, even in a place

I did not know. I followed my own tracks from

the day before, addressed the birch trees as family.

When I slept, I curled beneath the covers, knees

to elbows, even in summertime, worried that if I lost

the signature of my scent, I might lose myself for good.

GOVERNMENT CHEESE

We knew we were poor, clad in our secondhand outfits, forever shaped to someone else's frame, the bangs of our unruly hair trimmed to a high and crooked fringe by the uncertain hand of our mother. But we knew, occasionally, the joy of opening that oblong box of cardboard, the newness of its smell, silver foil gleaming within, brighter than a handful of freshly washed coins. We would tear into it with haste, cut a jagged slice with a butter knife, then another, never making a straight line. We never asked where it came from or why, though we gave thanks, as always, before wolfing down our grilled cheese and tomato soup, the finest I've had to this day. It was a delicacy lost to many, but not on us peasant kids, smiling our greasy smiles, wiping our mouths with the backs of our hands before racing out into the world again.

 

CHARLOTTE

 

Charlotte was well into her ninth decade,

with no plans for retirement, making,

slicing, and packing sandwiches

on the assembly line with the rest of us

poor souls -- perpetually bored teenagers,

dropouts, and functioning addicts trying to survive.

Her face was a wonder of lines intersecting

with lines, of worry and laughter,

one long and detailed story leading

imperceptibly into another; her skin, thin

as parchment, polished and shining

beneath the gray industrial light,

especially when she turned to smile.

Her beloved husband Frank had long since left

this life, while their children, and their children, had

grown and moved away, one to the east

and one far out west, remembering, most years,

to call at Christmas and her birthday.

"What would I do sitting at home alone?,"

she would ask to no one in particular,

answering herself with an exaggerated shrug.

Decades earlier, she had worked

at the ammunition plant not far from here,

alongside my aunt Anna Mae, counting

and packing machine gun shells for the war

six days a week, her hands perpetually

smelling of metal and oil for years.

This work was easier, much easier by far.

"Here I can eat what I make," she once quipped,

"and no one gets hurt, or killed -- just fed."

FINNISH PANCAKES

 

We stand at the kitchen counter,

my young daughter and I, mixing together

the milk, flour, sugar, and eggs by hand,

and per the family recipe, we do not measure

too closely, and are careful not to over-mix.

This recipe, handed down from her great-aunts,

and much further back than that,

is more feel than science, I am reminded,

not so different than writing a poem or falling in love.

In other words, it's always the first time.

When in doubt, add more butter,

always remember who you are cooking for,

and don't be afraid of small mistakes.

We can never resist peeking into the secret realm

of the oven as it browns and bubbles up

over the rim of the pan, as if from the earth

itself, lovely in its imperfection. Moments later,

lingonberries and maple syrup dripping

from our lips, we agree that this must be the best

batch yet -- until the next, and the next.

This is sustenance, after all, but also

a kind of song, a calling back to a world

long past, before setting out into the bright

expanse of this new day.

FASTING

 

Then, for reasons unclear to any of us, our mother decided that forgoing food for one day, then two, would somehow bring her children closer to God. No more sugary bowls of cereal spooned and slurped over Saturday morning cartoons, no more nuclear-orange macaroni and cheese, or chicken and dumplings simmering, unhurried, on the stove. We were to subside, instead, on the spirit alone, consume the Word like bread, dutifully reading our Bible verses out loud, mouths parched, bellies rumbling in revolt. Why, we wondered in silence, had the Creator given us bodies to nourish if we were not meant to do so? Why was He in need of constant reassurance? Was not our belief enough? We knew only the immediacy of our hunger, our living room suddenly the proverbial wilderness of old, void of growth. We called out, like Elijah, like the Lord himself, waited for a sign or response. But we were no prophets, merely kids, our small hands trembling when at last we were allowed to break fast. And though the Lord felt further away than ever, we naturally said grace, said it like we meant it.

THE DOUGHNUT MAN

 

The doughnut man seemed to turn up

overnight, no advertisement in the paper,

no fliers waving from the wipers of cars,

not even a shop sign in the window,

just the soft, milky glow of a kitchen light

signaling through the dark of early morning,

that heavenly smell wafting all the way

up and down 7th Street, drifting

outward with the smallest of breezes.

No one seemed to know his name,

where he came from or when, or even

whether he spoke English; he simply nodded

when we pointed out how many of each,

his thick fingers, surprisingly delicate,

placing each in a brown paper bag,

sending us kids on our way back home

where whatever small crime we may

have committed earlier in the day would

imediately be forgiven and expunged.

Even the body of Christ could not compete;

even the sun looked brighter and fuller

when shining through the greasy window

of that small bag, its warmth rising,

as if the day were something you could

keep close, hold on to, consume.

SAYING GRACE

 

When we were kids, we folded our

small peasant hands, freshly washed,

into imaginary cathedrals, mouthing

the humble words as instructed

to our invisible father, his earthly son,

and, strangely, a ghost which we

could only presume to be benevolent.

We prayed in earnest, though sometimes

in haste or with unappreciated humor,

prayed beneath that familiar painting

of an old man, also in prayer, weary

yet grateful for his daily crust of bread.

He seemed somehow holy, and yet

as ordinary as any among us.

I wondered if he might offer up one

on behalf of us poor sinners, who

always seemed on the cusp of eviction,

of fleeing again by cover of night,

our offerings too small to be noticed,

our debts to the Lord, and to those

who claimed to be in his service, unpaid.