- 2020 Volume 15
Saturday morning, yet closer to lunchtime, the stove
Is covered with pans, caked in breakfast.
The grey counter is strewn with papers and crumbs.
I haven’t eaten yet today. The man with the black
Eyebrows but the silvered hair pulls a Tupperware
From the fridge and scoops it into a bowl.
I only eat about a third, but I hand it to you.
You swallow the rest like a pitbull, and I do
The dishes while your family speaks inner circles.
The silvered man reaches into the middle of the mass
Of the papers and crumbs and finds a fruit bowl.
He tosses a plump, red fruit towards the skylight.
He pierces its thick skin, and it splits in two,
Like a hatchet cracks wood. Its two halves reveal
Round, red, raspberry-like, individual seeds.
He explains how it is a fruit of patience, and how
All the white must be removed. The process takes
About thirty minutes. He sets the blue bowl in front
Of my hip bone. He stares through his wire-framed
Glasses at me while he places a spoon on my palm.
The fruit is bitter, it doesn’t taste like raspberries.
The texture is gelatinous, yet crunchy. It’s off putting.
I keep setting small spoonfuls on my tongue
So as to not discount his hard work and hospitality.
The light in the room is its usual overcast, as it is
The first time you and I are able to not speak,
The times we intertwine with the couch, when I
Meet your brother and Sam, and the moments
You tell me to stop speaking to you. The kitchen is
Always cold. I wrap my purple self in brown blankets.
The lighting is as it is every Saturday.
Yet, today is not Saturday.
The funny thing about memory is its fluidity.
Rather than remembering distinct days, you come to
Remember the shared moments from a space.
It all blurs together and you can’t explain the
Chronology of the memory, because you don’t know
If the pomegranate was the same day as the shower.
You know the shower was the same day the silvered
Man decided to buy a car, but you don’t know if
It’s the same day as when you met your brother.
You remember the collective memories from places.
Each room in your house is its own space.
Whether the lights were on or off or it was day or night
Dictates the space. Each place has its own collection,
Each of which blend into a representative feeling
Of such space. I cannot speak to the validity
Of how it feels to eat a pomegranate for the first time.
This feeling has become blended with all interactions
I shared with your kitchen’s overcast light.
But I know your countertop shines a different grey
In the day than the gray it shines at night.
Photo: Deserted by Cate Christiansen