I will her to put her feet up, my mother with swollen ankles She’s been standing all morning in a hot kitchen making borscht I bring my lawn chair close We three are sharing lunch, the breeze through thick cottonwood shade cools us
“I would lock him in his room” says my daughter, “I would kick him in the shins and spit”
We pretend not to hear, but her words linger and I taste them, sweet vengeance
“Stop fussing. He’s a crazy old man” “He’s been your husband for sixty years — he should know better” “I would hit him over the head with a frying pan”
I watch as my daughter tends to Emo the caterpillar She adds fresh grass to the jar
“He’s had a hard life” “We all have pain” “I would mail him back to Siberia”
Of course she is listening— always an ear for a good story, for injustice
“Betrayal is learned” “So is kindness” “I would poke him in the eye”
I leave the zwieback for last—always best for last Butter melts in the hollow
“It is our destiny to learn love” She does this sometimes, shuts me up like nothing … “I would wash his brain out with soap and …”
She stands bewildered, jar in one hand Emo lifeless in the other— reconciling
So there we are, holding two complicated, conflicting truths. And love is always the answer.