Old Rose

Old Rose would come tottering to our door,

crusty as a Roman coin dredged up from fathoms.

Benvenuta! my mother would say, and I’d scamper

to get the tea kettle going and fig bars out.

Rose would plant herself at the kitchen table,

smooth her black dress and release the fragrance

of Italian, my mother’s mother’s mother tongue

she hadn’t heard since childhood.

So she’d ride waves of feeling, my mother—beam

when Rose smiled, shake her head when Rose frowned,

pat her hand when she got teary, all the while

teaching me

feel me feeling, know me knowing

words are boats bobbing

remember this

when I come to you disguised as an old woman

— Patricia McKernon Runkle