Sinatra,
or Chet Baker
plays on the stereo
In the living room.
I am hunched over the corner section of the countertop,
A glass of red wine
My father keeps trying to refill
Between my fingertips.
My mother is either talking to me
Or on the phone with my grandmother
Or my aunt.
Now that I’m away,
My presence at home is something special.
She usually makes fish
Or roasts a chicken.
Watching her move
Across the kitchen floor,
As if the things she pulls out of the fridge,
The stories she tells about the week,
And how she opens a can
Of crushed tomatoes,
Phone in ear,
Were so natural
She doesn’t have to stop
To consider them.
I think,
Looking at her
Doing what other mothers,
Fathers,
Sons,
And daughters do;
Have always done,
That there can’t be anyone else
Like the woman in front of me.