He tells his daughters all about you
My nieces, they're three and five
They call you Grandma
They know your name
and where you lived
Things you used to say
They've seen your photos
and they know you were sick
and you didn't get better

Last year he planted primroses
because he knew they were your favourites
They have their own house now
with enough room for five
The little one was born in August
A boy to play in that garden
where the flowers will bloom
every Spring, the season you loved
and which was your last

When that child is older
his sisters will teach him
The answer to Daddy's question:
What were Grandma's favourite flowers?
And Auntie will hold her tongue
and never correct him
that it was bluebells

If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".

8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)

You get the idea.

But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.

I can no longer feel a sense of achievement
asking politely for a salami roll at the bakery
Taking in a package for a neighbour
Thanking someone for holding open a door
I can speak my mother tongue here
Recycling the words I've spoken for years
My days hold sentences I've used before,
phrases that were surely among my first handful
Worn out, dulled with age
unlike the shining foreign treasures I left behind
I used to feel a thrill with each new noun
collecting them on the street like a child
picking autumn leaves from the pavement
I found vibrant colour in the commonplace
die Gabel, der Löffel, das Fenster
Observing each syllable, noticing details
that I rush past in my own language
Every new feeling or thought I hadn't the words for
a chance to learn to express them
I navigated my way through conversation
without the map we have here
that allows us to take short-cuts
I listened harder than I ever had before
taking in every single word
Gestures filled the gaps in my vocabulary
A change in expression
Using my whole body to tell my story
to people who appreciated the effort
that went in to making a connection
They took the time to slow down to my pace
over the months, as I learned to communicate

Here, it is easy to make myself understood
But so much harder to make myself heard