A Sestina for Bubbie Flo

In her kitchen with the beige eclectic floor tiles,

Lounging at the worn-in table, I watch box TV and I eat tuna cups.

She moves swiftly, adding vegetables to a pot of what will soon be soup.

The patterns in the kitchen don’t match. The plate in front of me

Contains the same motif found on a doily, but with more lines.

Ella Fitzgerald plays from an ancient machine, and Bubbie Flo says,

“Es, mine kin!” and who am I to conflict with what Bubbie says?

I pick up a petite pie shell; my hand trembles and it splats across the floor tiles.

Bubbie arrives with a shmate , exposing her forehead, marked with telling lines.

She keeps herself busy, dancing occasionally and putting away cups.

She catches my eyes following her, and quietly approaches me,

Bubbie Flo’s halcyon hands touch my face, and I smell the savoury soup.

I tell Bubbie how much I love her chicken noodle soup,

“It is shitteryne, a bit of everything!” She softly says.

A bit of everything, Bubbie? Does that include me?

Bubbie says “nayn, mine kin!” and I look at her and then back to the tiles.

I glance around the kitchen: Bubbie, a steamy soup, drawers filled with cups.

Outside the window behind her, the garden teems with crops growing in neat lines.

On display, like the actors on The Lawrence Welk Show tapping in precise lines.

Tappers on the television pound in the small box as Bubbie stirs the aromatic soup.

Bubbie’s eyes betray youthfulness, blues that match her teacups.

I can almost see her as the child she once was, sitting in her mother’s lap, as she says,

“Flo, belbin shtil!” And she stops kicking her feet, placing them beneath her on the vinyl tiles.

Her mother pulls her auburn curls into small pigtails and exclaims “show me!”

Her mother says she’s beautiful, and that she is, she’s always been to me.

She always aurates light, even when she carefully hangs laundry on clothing lines.

It may be confusing how a woman can turn mundane things, such as the tiles

Of her son’s play set, to ingredients in a soup,

Into a home, with uniquely delicious flavours. Her neighbours on Beaver Ridge say,

“She is a communal grandmother” and this proves true when she pours juice into cups.

Apple juice for the students of a class of first graders on grandparents’ day, cups

Full of love, for each student that no longer has a grandparent; Lucky me.

It was grandparent’s day, and A*** didn’t have one, so Bubbie Flo Says,

“A friend of yours deserves all the love.” With deep and unforgettable smile lines.

Bubbie Flo’s hands have dried thousands of tears, stirred copious amounts of hearty soups.

I watch her with admiration as she picks up shmutz off floor tiles.

Bubbie will never understand the solace of her love and neither will the tiles

She’s walked on, the strangers she has yet to encounter, or the aromatic soup.

The warmth of her kitchen softly fills the space between lines.

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