i’m making dinner for my mom and dad;
lemon caper pasta and green bean casserole.
they are sitting in the living room,
i hear peals of laughter
while mincing one pale purple shallot
and four cloves of garlic.
it makes my heart drop for a moment,
because i think my mom is crying,
but they’re laughing.
they’re laughing.
i stop to ask if they like capers,
i don’t know if they like capers,
i want them to like the food i make.
i give my mom a few green olives as an aperitif while she waits.
i boil 6 nests of tagliatelle
and blanch the trimmed green beans until they’re the color of astroturf.
i make a roux with butter and flour and milk,
mixing in a quarter can of fried onions until everything is incorporated.
dinner is almost ready,
my mom and dad move to the dining room,
i want to hear what they’re saying but can’t.
i saute my garlic and shallot in chartreuse olive oil
with three heaping spoonfuls of capers.
i pour freshly squeezed lemon juice through my fingers into the pan,
catching four and a half splintered seeds.
my dad asks if there’s any way he can help me,
there’s not.
the starchy pasta makes the sauce creamy,
the green beans are done.
we sit at the table,
nobody really wants to drink the pale pink wine we got,
dad doesn’t drink much anymore at all,
neither does mom,
so we leave it unopened in the fridge.
while we eat i think about
what each of them gave me;
above average height and
attachment issues and
crooked teeth and
a nurturing nature and
fucked up feet.
and i think i got a lot of other things from someone who died before i was born.
it’s not fair sometimes, that these people who i’ll never know
impacted my life so much.
who would i be
if papa sandy hadn’t been mean to his son?
if his son hadn’t ignored my mom for days at a time
when she did something he didn’t like?
we finish eating and i take the dishes to the sink,
cleaning up while they sit and talk.