Category: Memory & Roots

Saturdays came with great anticipation,

I’d run downstairs on a wonderful mission.

Cartoons were on every channel, it seemed,

As Bugs, Daffy, and Road Runner beamed.

I’d watch until noon, then get banished outside,

To play all day long with a dog at my side.

At dinnertime, back to the house I would go,

Hoping that Saturday night would say “no”

To bedtime, but sweet dreams would swallow me whole—

Til I woke the next morning to…

Church.

Casseroles were always her go-to dish,

An economy born of her heart’s favorite wish—

Anything saved us from extra pans,

Yet beauty was served by her gentle hands.

Chili mac, baked spaghetti, or crispy grilled cheese,

Simple comfort she crafted to nourish and please.

She loved to feed family, gathered and sweet,

And one of her favorites was Spanish meat.

A treasure passed down from her mother before,

Like meatloaf unraveled and scattered once more.

It filled up our table, a weekly delight,

A honest, good supper to end every night.

But savory dinners were just half the art—

Cookies and cakes held a place in her heart.

She’d sample each batch as the mixing was done,

Stealing a bite just to test every one.

Growing up raised on the food from her stove

Is a memory wrapped in a blanket of love.

Though I only can master a dish, maybe three,

Her handed-down recipes stay close to me.

With Midwestern heart and a soul full of grace,

She turned simple ingredients into a place—

Where everything coming right out of her aisle

Was the best comfort food by a country mile.

My parents built a sanctuary out of ink and binding,

a house where libraries lived both upstairs and down.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves holding the weight of worlds,

every spare inch crowded with a quiet, infinite landscape.

There were heavy lexicons and columns of history,

leaving no excuse for an unanswered mind.

But beneath the rigorous architecture of the schoolwork,

the true inheritance was waiting in children’s bedrooms.

Towering bookcases standing guard beside our beds,

every shelf stacked tight with a private invitation to escape—

sailing away where the wild things run,

or drifting high upon a giant peach.

The rooms have changed, but the geography remains.

The greatest wealth they ever passed into my hands was the quiet freedom of the page.

Raindrops keep falling on my head—

that was the song I chose

to perform at the school recital.

But I froze.

I was five or six

and all the parents were there,

looking for their child to perform.

But I didn’t care about them.

I was going to be the star of the show.

They were going to see.

Everyone’s eyes

were going to be looking at me.

I practiced every day.

And every night.

I was going to be the star.

But I froze from the fear.

I froze from the fright.

I ran from the stage—

all the eyes looking at me.

I was going to be the star, but it wasn’t to be.