It was
a terribly gloomy June,
plans made of cheese cloth
and dreams cracked in half,
the summer my mother made grape salad.
It wasn't
for lack of trying.
I went to parties and cafes and community events at the Ruby place.
I wrote every day and I went to the pool also
every day. No,
really, I went for two months straight. Never missed
in my pink two-piece that's disintegrated now.
Faded into oblivion, caked in dirt.
I read all of Madwoman in the Attic and half of Still Mad.
I listened to Sabrina Carpenter and Charli XCX.
I had the young ones over to prep for SNL auditions
and discuss how to fight for a Free Palestine.
I rolled my eyes at the old ones, resentful to lose what I never gained.
Puhg and I went to the movies so often,
and I always liked it. Sometimes we went with another couple.
Sometimes I wore a mask. I said yes
to just about every comedy show, and I walked
home from UCB many nights, often singing the bridge of "But Daddy I Love Him"
while hiking up the big hill on Western. I saw coyotes twice and my hamster
only if I got up in the middle of the night.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb to watch Eras livestreams and managed my Etsy shop.
My mom and sister visited in July. My mom had mentioned making the grape salad for the Fourth.
I hadn't had it in twenty years. She made two tubs, no thanks to me.
I ate through the glop for weeks. The crunch of brown sugar and the softened pecans.
There was power
in many moments! To see my own book on the shelf,
all the miracles my partner makes to make our life
so much better. The run-ins around the neighborhood and cackling with Tira
and when she apologized.
All the validation
that assured me
and assured me there is nothing stable anymore--
do with that as you will--
the summer my mother made grape salad.
