November.

I cooked my way through my sister’s anger

At my choices. Her wrath split all the years

Of children’s laughter, running in the old

Ball park together, taking turns winning at Scrabble.

Split it like cordwood to burn for her new life.

Don’t weep, the old woman says, sitting on the stove

With all her long woolen skirts.  Bake. Take

Some of that fire back for your own nourishment.

You know, in the summer, how you hate to cook

And wish there were healthier meals in the freezer

Than in the store? Well, now is your chance.

Two days I chop, mix, knead, watch the rising loaves,

Package like a thrifty housewife, until I am exhausted

And can no longer feel her wrath. The fire warms

My kitchen and my heart. I am not

Susie Homemaker, but it is better than weeping.

 

December.

He comes home from grad school, swollen with purpose

And eyes me warily. I try to interest him in hot soup,

But he is not fooled. The words fly, the moment I feared,

It is over before the bread is cooled. He goes to find

A motel room, says not to follow. I am like a wrung rag.

Don’t weep, says the old woman, perched on the radiator

In her pointed red Mother Goose hat. Clean. Go after dust

Like it was your life. Scrub until you bleed. Get him off you,

Out of you, away from you. Sweep until you can’t stand it,

Until you can’t stand up. By the time the house is spotless

And I am reduced to mopping the pantry floor, his memory

Is strangely receded, as one months old and not just

A handful of days. For this is her gift.

 

January.

The snow falls like goose feathers, and I struggle my way

Through drift after drift to get to the job. Until the paper

On the desk about the downsizing. They are careful to make

The paper green, the color of money, not pink, but it is the same.

Last slog home through that snowdrift, I look at clothes

In the store window, but do not dare reach for my wallet.

Once I would have bought them anyway, to hell with the

Electric bill, I will heal my pride with bright snippets.

Don’t weep, says the old woman standing at my bedside,

Her silver hair misty against the shining brass. Sew. So you

Are hurt, afraid, make yourself new armor, fetishes to

Ward off poverty and worthlessness. Fix the holes in

Old things, feel better about being a year older.

The mending always piles up anyway. I stitch and mend,

My socks, my pride. It is not that I do not weep,

But you cannot wring your hands while working.

My frugality may be a conceit in this world of waste,

But it salves my heart like cool water. Not lazy. For once.

 

February.

He comes back to find some things he left, nothing

Important enough to have asked for before. I have

Thrown them all out already. I tell him to get his dirty

Boots off the mat and shut the door in his face,

Wondering at its arrogant bewilderment.

Why would I not value what he valued,

Put them aside to carefully return, in spite of

All his carelessness? The old woman does not speak,

Just cackles as the snow blows like feathers

From the roof. The goose is dead and cooked.

 

There are some who would say that her way is too hard,

There are some who would say that she denies the heart

Inside, stifles the tears that must fall.

They do not understand her ways.

She teaches me to pass sorrow through my hands

And into the work. The wash water is my tears,

The roar of the sewing machine my wail,

The thump of kneaded bread my blows of anger.

And then it is out, and there is beauty.

Truly, beauty is better than mere relief,

A wet pillow and a pile of used hankies,

And will keep you warmer in the winter cold,

And will scour you clean by Springtime.