I.
The grandmother, too old for this at fifty-six,
was chopping strands of rhubarb. Her son-
in-law was thirty-eight; she had been his baby-
sitter once, sorta on a high for having won a run-
off for her high school’s homecoming queen,
a tradition some said even then was on the outs.
She poked the steaming of her brussels sprouts
and turned the pork chops in the oven just a
touch—au gratin should retain the semblance
of cheese while melting into meat, at least as
Grandma Désirée had taught her, making sure to
whistle while you work, whisper not too much.
The paring knife was awkward in her clutch—
too small for ripened rhubarb that resisted
being the thing to sour afterthought—a garnish
to the ice cream for desert, assuming they
would want to stay and help with any clean-
up—what little to be done these geriatric days.
She thought about her daughter’s parting ways
at age eighteen—not so very long ago, con-
sidering—and how on earth a kid would help
her cause. ‘You’d drown puppies if you could!’
she’d screamed at her one time, mother slam-
ming doors on visions far away and not-so-dear.
The table had been set for upwards of a year—
the day her daughter called to say, ‘I’m pregnant’,
and who the likely father was; to say shit hit
the fan was not at all the case—when babies go
away, we’d love to beg them back, to bake a coffee
cake—with rhubarb, cream and fixings for a fix.
II.
She wavered whether wine be added to the mix,
among the many bottles yet unbroken from the
cellar rack her husband made a million fights
ago. A mental flip of coin and thus, I think so, al-
though she hoped it wouldn’t come to anyone’s at-
tention—infant still umbilical at feeding time.
The doorbell dusted off its god-forsaken chime,
a braying of an artificial lamb so seldom used
since everything retreated to the corridors on-
line, the safety of the web—as long as every-
one stays spider to the haplessness of flies. Yet
now was not the time to think of this—now….
She couldn’t lift her feet—couldn’t fathom how
to move them from their sudden freeze. Of
course her daughter had to know the secret
key, underneath the empty urn for years—may-
be rusted to unusability, as symbols lose their
shine. ‘Come on in!’ she tossed her voice instead.
The urn perhaps assumed someone was dead,
scraping oh so silently to honor the bereaved—
surely there’d be tears, the unknown oceans
that decide to trickle out in stinginess, as if we’d
waste their worth the way we do with every-
thing (—the urn’s been watching, taking notes).
She wracked her brain for recent anecdotes—
any way to break the ice, from kitchen floor to
opening the door to awkward hugs to certain
shrugs to answer How’s it goin’? as if that ‘it’ had
all of Dante’s rings in mind. All or nothing ac-
cording to the script, too old for this at fifty-six.
III.
The couple stood a moment waiting for a cue,
an invitation in, a gesture reassuring water-
under-bridge or off a duck’s back, if you will;
the lack of baby in their arms was cause to get
the first words out: ‘Where’s the little—’ met
with thumbs—she’s sleeping in the car, at last…
She was colicky, this kid, but kinda growing fast,
proof the pudding hadn’t spoiled, FAS or other-
wise. This was not a joke per se, and no one
laughed as such; but now the husband blushed,
having heard the specter stories and likely—
who could tell?—a willing shadow in the wings.
The choice to sit outside in case the baby sings
was logical, if strained—the neighborhood
had known them as a mystery, never once ap-
pearing three-of-them as one, always arguing
in muted breath when school or work was done,
often bound in bedrooms to bugger off alone.
She wanted none of that today—on the phone
for this soirée she said exactly that: ‘I don’t
want—’ and daughter finishing the thought,
mumbling something like a worry-not, an un-
convincing passing-off, like someone else
was listening in—a 1950’s switchboard gal…
The conversation stalled. A chirping cardinal
filled the void—with spring-like noise, at very
least, to fortify its nest, puff its scarlet chest,
cover for the silent rest, as often is the case—
nature knows a decoy after trial-and-error,
come-what-may, picking usables from residue.
IV.
She asked to see the baby—a fitting thing to do,
if corners of her smile could not deflect the
trembles in her eyes, bloodshot for as long as
memories were blue; ‘I’ll be quiet as—’ the
mouse she’d be when dad had been a rat. But
enough of that—a household needs a 2nd chance.
The husband stayed away, sensing circumstance
would need to be internal—generations at a
pass. And so the mother and grandmother tip-
toed a line to see creation under glass, a snow-
globed angel strapped within a safety seat—
exquisite, if the world would polaroid so well…
She felt the flood before the first drops fell—
the dearth of which the childless wife of brave
Macbeth would end her life: even killers got-
ta cry sometimes, in somnolent disguise. ‘Mom,
you know you—’ All too well she knew. The mom-
ent of conception should take no one by surprise.
The baby stirred, but not enough to open eyes,
perhaps a premonition that a grandma’s face
should beam delight without the fright of mas-
cara running now amok—get a grip, bite your lip,
anything beyond the steady drip of moonshine
in dark, generations at an everclear impasse...
She sprinted toward the house, across the grass
and through the open door—as if the pork chops
were on fire—or rhubarb chunks had lodged in son-
ny’s throat—or neighbors had convened to call
the cops—or none of this was happening at fifty-
six, far too old for learning how to lie to life anew.
Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2021)
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