love

Look in the fruit basket, pushing aside
the uneven orbs of citrus until you find
the dark and malleable egg,
the fruit posing as a vegetable,
bright green enveloped by dark green.
Where do you come from, avocado?
I make nachos, and I think
“Make sure to invite ol’ A to this fiesta”.
I stir fry peppers and green beans
in soy sauce and lemon;
we all know it wouldn’t taste the same
without you, Avocado.
Pasta and panzanella salad?
Bellissimo! Buon appetito!
It just doesn’t make sense, Avocado.

Lacy and Alison with Ellen the Koala

There are the simple things, like boot versus trunk
or toe-mah-toe sauce versus ketchup.
(Catsup? Does anyone spell it that way, anymore?)
That first time you told me you had the shits,
and I was alarmed.
When my sister killed her interview,
you were alarmed,
then turned around and murdered your burger.
Who sings that song, “I Got You Babe”?
Sonny and … Sure.
Sure. That’s not how you spell it.
Sure! Sure! You say. It’s Sure.
And then your dad offered me a rissole,
which sounded like rizzle,

It's like this. The weekend before the hurricane, I watched friends and colleagues scramble in preparation. I don't mean that they were stocking up on water or batteries or candles (though some of them were responsible while others regretted not taking the prep more seriously), but rather they were scrolling through their little black book.

I really want to cut my hair, it's just so long, but I can't. My husband likes it long. So can you keep the length but maybe lighten up the layers? But make it so he doesn't know I cut it. And bangs. Maybe bangs.
Will the bangs interfere with your head scarf?
No, I'll pull them back. I just want something different and it's been long forever.
Ok. I can do that. You said you were a student; what are you studying?
I'm studying to become a pharmacist.
Cool.
Yeah, I just hope I don't get pregnant.

And so I wonder, which one are you? Are you the one who believes that there is another person walking this earth meant for you and you alone? Are you the one that thinks that God has created another half, just for you, and that you will one day meet this person and suddenly you two will fit together like no other, making you realize that those people before were great, but not right, puzzle pieces that could be finagled together if you cheated a little bit with a bend here or a squeeze there, but it's not the same as when two designated pieces slide in together just so.

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.

My Grandma Betty died on Sunday.
My Grandma Buttsy, who I can envision clearly, puttering around the kitchen, making mashed potatoes and offering me grape soda.
She once made me a popcorn ball the size of a basketball for my birthday.
She had a garden that was so lovely, so tasty, that I thought for sure her gardening genes were so strong they would automatically be passed on to me. Alas . . .my attempts at gardening will never compare to Grandma Betty's.

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