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Making Gravy
by Laurle Kolp Knocking my coffee it sloshes on the kitchen table and burns my hand, burns like your words: The power plant’s on strike. …blah, blah, blah... disturbed by your worried voice, my father’s drone all those years ago back in high school— a snooty private school where kids my age wore Ralph Lauren Polo’s and sported brand new cars at 16— “bankruptcy” perception branding me different. Less than. …go bankrupt, how we’ll stay afloat, our savings nonexistent, you blab. My eyes rest on the red checkered Better Homes & Gardens cookbook Mom handed down to me when we married. When I pull it off the shelf, a recipe falls out, “Gravy” written on top with shaky hand, my great-grandmother’s hand- writing, a recipe used most nights during the Great Depression. Growing up with eleven siblings, my grandfather living on bread and gravy used to say it didn’t matter because he knew he was loved. I take your hand and tell you we’ll be fine. the navy blue velvet void I am sitting here with your book again evening glimmers at my window the moon looms white and the sky has no holes … and I think suddenly if you died… the helicoptered rise and fall of whirling flight in this cruel wind’s seven thirty skyline would swallow me whole— I cannot watch the birds fly south. |
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