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Leftovers
My grandmawmia--she
died some time ago, before I knew her. Even though I spent
time with her (she in her nineties, me barely ten), I 'magine
she didn't live on a pedestal, wasn't a wall
pin-up, or wived
as a trophy. Nor was she proffered
in print as the reason for morality, or composed
on canvas as liberty.
No. My mawmia, she laundered linens for the Intimate
Saint: a drab debutante
who knew how to conduct business without wearing a thong
or a suit.
Her Intimacy was a real role model for my mawmia
(and subsequently my extended family).
Whenever I visited, Mawmia did not take the time to teach
me how to press pleats or how to acquire foodstuffs. Such
home
economic processes and strategies I had to obtain from
other bygone mawmias--or teach
myself. (Forget about the pleats!)
How grand Mawmia was! The only thing she taught me was
how to eat soup: "Spoon-away-lift. Spoon-away-lift."
As I ate the soup, I had to listen to Mawmia as she dictated
to me Her intimacies.
I just finished the last of the turkey carcass soup leftover
from the holidays--but those dictations are still keeping
my bowl full.
Spoon-away-lift.
Spoon-away-lift. Spoon-away-lift.
Spoon-away-lift. Spoon-away-lift.
Spoon-away-lift. Spoon-away-lift.
Spoon-away-lift.
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