Three bananas
well past their prime
greeted me from the kitchen counter.

Valiantly holding their form,
the trio attempted to hide
deep bruises,
as if any of us can halt aging.

Reaching for the Martha Stewart Cookbook —
nestled next to old friends Ina Garten,
Julia Child, Christopher Kimball, Alice Waters —
I flipped to the best banana bread recipe in town.

Over the years,
I have sampled dozens of recipes.
But,
none match
the moist, aromatic loaf
currently rising in the warm oven.

Soon,
my family will awake,
burst into the kitchen
and beeline for the treat
resting on the cooling rack.

Next time,
can you make a couple loaves?
Next time,
can we take a loaf to work?
Next time,
we should let six bananas linger —
all the more bounty for us.

For young Jim Henson
visits to his grandmother Dear
stoked a flickering flame
of creativity at his core.

Together
they would listen to the radio –
ventriloquist Edgar Bergen,
variety shows, comedy hours –
and spend hours
drawing, crafting.

Like Henson’s grandmother,
my Dot
delighted in entertaining
her grandchildren.

A teacher in her youth,
Dot led us tramping through
the New Jersey Pine Barrens
in search of tree frogs, mushrooms
and deviously beautiful pitcher plants.

In the evening,
I would scoot close
to watch her knitting needles
fly at lightening speed.

Today my own needles
charge through
soft scarves, cabled sweaters,
patterned mittens, scrumptious cowls.

When heartbreak visited
in my early twenties,
I drove hours
to sit with Dot
over an ever present cup of tea.

Wisdom
comes with living.
And grandmothers,
have seen it all.
They have been loved
ignored
burdened
blessed
forgotten
and feted.

When Dot‘s grandchildren arrived,
she didn’t ask about homework
or grades or misdeeds.

Dot knew what truly mattered
lay just outside the door —
along a wooded path,
in a canoe,
walking the beach.

I miss her every day.

Growing up
I knew every beat
of my favorite songs.
I sang in the shower, in the car,
full throat, no surprises.
Live concerts were a chance
to sing along — same rhythm, same notes.

Last night
The Bad Plus,
a jazz quartet of infinite skill
charted a new map,
an ever-changing landscape,
keeping listeners on their toes,
enraptured.

I grew to love jazz
when I married.
My husband, a drummer in his youth,
played record after record
on Sunday mornings
as we drank coffee, read the paper.

Bill Evans, Miles Davis, Nina Simone,
Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane —
brilliant artists
who I will never see in person.

But,
the jazz scene is alive and well.
Ravi Coltrane, the Marsalis family,
Gregory Porter, Kandace Springs,
Kenny Garrett, Jon Batiste,
Diana Krall, Marcus Miller,
Esperanza Spalding, Christian McBride,
the list goes on.

If you can,
head to a jazz club.
Whether local group or living legend,
you will never hear the same thing twice.

Jazz
is invention every night.
The drummer pounds a solo
out of metal and skin.
A saxophonist reaches the peak
of the scale before descending
to buttery low notes.
The bass
reminds your heart
it is the essential rhythm.

Yesterday,
my husband got off a plane,
hurried to change,
and we sailed through the night
on an ocean of rolling notes.

Padding down the stairs,
two pups at my heels,
I head straight for the kitchen.

A jewel-toned foil bag
holding coffee beans
beckons from the cabinet.

Grinding the beans,
releases a heady aroma
of nuts, earth, smoke.

I watch the morning elixir
drip into a clear carafe,
nectar from the gods.

At the bottom of a ceramic mug
I splash a layer of cream,
enough to lighten the brew
without dropping the temperature.

Finally,
cup in hand,
I snuggle between the dogs
and take up my book,
grateful on this Saturday morning.

As my feet sink
into warm sand,
the years drop away.

I am five
perched on a terry cloth towel,
watching my mother
scan the packed sand at water’s edge
for treasure.

Come look!
A creamy tiger-striped whorl
rests in her open palm.
The moon shell glistens
from the kiss of the surf.

I am ten
traversing the rocky shore in Maine,
bending to discover
well worn bits of glass
with rounded edges
in cobalt blue, sea foam green, amethyst.

I am twenty six
walking the beaches of south Florida
drenched in memories of my grandmother.
Her delight in discovering
an oblong Olive shell,
perfect for fitting in the pocket
to rub whenever worry abound.

I am thirty two
walking hand in hand
with my young son
as he darts from shell pile to shell pile.
A late night storm hurled
a smorgasbord of delights
onto the shoal,
too many wonders
to comprehend at once.

Yesterday
I walked the beach,
my siblings at my side,
laughing and reminiscing,
our eyes lowered to the sand
beneath our feet.

We remain seekers,
generation upon generation
alert to the beauty
above, around and before us.

On the day before spring break,
colleagues prepare
for a hectic day of instruction.

Spring weather,
combined with the upcoming break,
means students bouncing
chatting,
chomping at the bit.

Next door,
I hear two teachers share a laugh.

Across the hall,
a serious student discussion ensues.

Down the corridor,
three teachers compare notes.

On the stairs,
a teacher comforts a crying student.

In the office,
yet another teacher greets parents.

There is no question
the pandemic changed teaching,
perhaps forever.

But,
the heart
of every teacher I know,
puts students first.

I am honored
to be in this company.

Inside a clear box
in my storeroom
sits a small ivory sweater
hand knit when I was born.

Petite pink roses
dot the collar
and pearly buttons
adorn the front.

In my memory,
my grandmother’s knitting needles
moved constantly —
while watching tv
or chatting with family.

The needles are now mine.
You see,
knitting was woven
into my DNA
the day I was born.

On various needles,
I have
a cowl for my sister,
a hat for my son,
a scarf for my spouse.

For me,
magic resides in
needles and yarn.

We have a limited number
of days here on earth.

This thought struck me
as I walked out into
a sparking spring morning.

Wispy clouds dust
a peach-colored sky.

Robins rest on tree branches,
and daffodils dot the border garden.

No matter what the day holds,
I know setting the right intention…
can make all the difference.

Perhaps I can tattoo
a reminder on my brain?

Maybe I need a daily nudge
to help me live
each day
to overflowing?

Or
maybe I just need to
look up from my life
to see all I will be missing.

Clouds
descend
to coat the night
in gauzy white.

Trees take on
a ghostly aura.
Lights become
glowing orbs.

And,
residents
take shelter
in darkened houses
as fog tucks all in
for sleep.

The tiny black beetle
hurdles across the walkway,
craving the safety
of the tall verdant grass.

I set my book down
to watch his progress
on a warm spring evening.

Next,
I notice
a line of ants marching
toward food
or perhaps returning home.

A glance up reveals
small gnats dancing
in the sinking sunlight.

Suddenly,
the space
for quiet reading
has become a bustling metropolis.

Even in the calm of dusk,
I am reminded
our world teems
with buoyant life.