Knitting came into my life

with the first baby sweater my grandmother crafted.

The creamy white sweater

boasts three small buttons

and a spray of spring flowers — candy pink, lemon yellow, sky blue.

The flowers rest on perfectly knit rows

like iced decorations on a petit four.

When I turned ten,

my grandmother presented me

with two long wooden sticks and a rosy red ball of yarn.

It was time I learned to knit.

My first efforts were weak.

Holes dotted my early scarves,

where I let stray stitches wander away.

My grandmother chatted amiably as we knit —

about new plants in her garden,

purchasing corn for the ducks of the nearby pond,

plans for a family mystery trip on the weekend.

Occasionally, she would reach over

to examine my stitches.

She was generous with praise,

but quick to school me on corrections.

“You only get better with practice.”

I did not knit through my middle and high school years.

When a college roommate wanted to learn,

I picked up wooden needles

and my hands fell into

familiar rhythms – knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one.

This evening, I will sit on the couch —

soft, silky cashmerino wool in shades of smoky gray

dancing across my needles

as I knit the lace pattern of a muffler

to guard against an early spring chill.

I can almost hear my grandmother’s voice

regaling me with stories of the ordinary,

woven with two sticks and a ball of yarn.

We are tossed at sea

in this pandemic.

Humanity strained,

hugs abandoned.

If our species

relies on connection,

What binds us together in times of trouble?

Love.

Hope.

Stories.

These are the things that hold us together.

Love and hope are intertwined —

each strengthening the other.

And, stories feed us when we are apart.

The pandemic will end.

But,

we will always require

Love.

Hope .

Stories.

Inspired by Alice Dunbar-Nelson’s poem “Hope“.

Not long ago,

my father sold his summer home of thirty years.

The large, rambling seaside abode

witnessed fourth of July fireworks,

games of flashlight tag, barbecues and bonfires.

My father called to say five or six boxes

were headed my way.

You see, reader, I collect memories,

family moments documented

in sepia or engraved on old debate trophies.

When the boxes arrived,

I peeled open the cardboard shell

to reveal a lifetime’s worth of gold.

There is my great uncle Nate, 1942,

clad in WWII Marine khakis on Oahu just after Pearl Harbor,

the rifle in his hands

incongruent with the waving palm trees;

my young law clerk father, 1959,

beaming along side Chief Justice Earl Warren;

my mother, 1966, impossibly beautiful,

resting on Cape Cod’s sandy shore.

This summer, I will revisit each moment,

jotting notes for my son and future generations

before the images no longer represent reminiscence,

but rather hold strangers.

Memories are ephemeral.

We must capture them while we can.

Yesterday was my son’s birthday.

His one request for dinner tonight:

Boston cream pie.

Through the years I have tried a host of recipes.

Boston cream pie is actually a yellow cake

with custard layers and chocolate ganache drizzled on top.

Never have I made a Boston cream pie that satisfied me.

Today, I rose early, walked the dogs,

visited the market for a few final ingredients,

and took to the kitchen armed with a new recipe.

In fact, the recipe is a revelation.

Ina Garten, a favorite cook & East Hampton acquaintance of my stepmother,

added Boston cream pie to her latest cookbook.

But, it is Garten’s lengthy essay, included with the recipe,

that gives me confidence and comfort.

Garten spent six years trying to perfect a Boston cream pie recipe,

only to be disappointed year after year.

Finally, with a suggestion for a “cake soak” from

“an extraordinary baker”, Garten found success.

In my sunny, moss green kitchen,

I spent the morning going through the paces of Garten’s recipe.

I realize now…

folding pastry cream, melting chocolate,

baking a cake light as air —

are all signs of love.

Tonight will tell if the intricate recipe

produces an exquisite desert.

But regardless,

I spent the morning thinking of my son

with each additional ingredient —

I consider it a win already.

For the past year,

my mother has existed solely

in old, worn photographs.

The mother of joy and connection,

craft projects and mystery trips,

bare feet and clay sculpture.

Just one year ago,

the mother I encountered

was a shadow of this younger woman.

Drink, despair and disease

had robbed us all of her true self.

But now,

as time passes and her death

adds distance to the darker days,

the mother of my childhood

returns in vivid color.

Any pain from the last twenty years

is falling away,

leaving only the gleaming

portrait of a mother whole.

As a child I collected treasure on walks —

sea glass, acorns, driftwood, shells.

My mother honored my discoveries by creating

small tableaus throughout the house —

a woodland scene on the mantle,

a beach scattering on the kitchen counter.

Today on my walk

I found a large pine cone

nestled in a bed of pine needles.

Even though my hands were full,

two rambunctious pups on leashes,

I stopped to scoop up this find

and carry it two miles home.

Pine cones have one primary job —

encase pine tree seeds

in a fortress of woody leaves to protect

them from winter and wild animals.

It takes nearly three years for a pine cone to mature.

Yet, once the pine cone falls,

it opens its stiff scales,

allowing the gentle seeds to move on.

My abandoned pine cone, a parent and vessel,

now sits on the mantle so we can honor

its role in replenishing the earth.

If quarantine has taught me anything,

it is the pleasure of small things.

There is an order to the day,

absent when schedules are rushed.

A pot of Love Supreme coffee from Chicago,

Art Pepper’s jazz warming the room,

two pups asleep on the plush rug at my feet.

Outside the tangerine sunrise

melts into the horizon.

My desk by the window holds all I need —

pens, extra sharp pencils, an open journal.

A year ago, this comfort was only possible

on Sunday mornings.

But now, I rise at 5 am for a long walk —

dogs, birds and neighborhood foxes in tow.

I will miss the solitude, the order, the peace of mind

when the world reopens fully.

For now, I sip my coffee

and appreciate the comforts of home.

When we waver,

it is often done in silence.

Silence offers the mind space to regret,

mourn, ponder, reflect.

Silence speaks as loudly

as the truth.

Silence can be a canyon

filled with the noise

of a thousand minds speaking, yet unheard.

But…

silence can also be bliss.

Silence can be a reward

at the end of a day filled with sound.

Silence can be savored,

cherished, appreciated.

Silence is never nothing.

*This poem was inspired by Krysten Hill’s poem “Nothing”.

Photo by Andy Køgl on Unsplash

When the tide is low

the center of the meandering river

reveals small islands of lush green grass.

How this grass took root,

in such a tenuous spot,

is a wonder.

The water constantly moving

buffets the sturdy tufts.

But,

when the sky clouds and the rain descends,

the gentle islands of grass

submerge.

Rushing liquid pours over the grass,

causing a slight disturbance

in the river’s flow.

Had I not seen the majestic stalks waving

in the low tide,

I would not hold

the delicious secret I have now.

Hidden below the shimmering surface

lies an oasis,

a verdant respite

from the world’s turmoil.

If only the brave reeds can withstand

the urgent march of changing times.

Scientists tell us

sixty percent of adult memories

come from the time between 15 and 25 years.

The “reminiscence bump” stores

early adolescence and young adulthood

to revisit on cold winter nights

or with the familiar scent of the first spring rain.

What of the other 40% of memory?

The sweeping snowy owl

flying low past our car on a long ago night;

paddling the quiet waterways of the Pine Barrens

in a dark green canoe;

badminton at a sparkling fourth of July picnic;

or an Easter egg hunt on a plush green expanse.

Snatches of memory from early childhood

bubble up unannounced,

bright and vivid —

as if fighting to remain.