It is 2009.
My grandmother is a bustler.
She never stops moving.
But she doesn’t like the rest of us to help.
She flaps her arms at us, apron strings flying around her like white snakes on the loose.
“Set your tush down on the chair and relax!”
She stirs the mushroom soup, fries the potato pancakes, pours a thimble of cheap plum brandy.
It’s A Wonderful Life plays on the TV.
It is hard to imagine this night the poets call holy being any other way.
Now it is 2013 in my new house.
My Babcia bustles less now, and sits more.
“Let me help! Give me something to do, aniołka.” Her tired eyes say otherwise.
Her aniołka, her little angel. I pour her a highball and take her into my dining room. For such frail hands, they have a strong grip on my forearm.
“I’ve got it, Babci. You just sit your tush down and relax.”
A smile. A tuft of white hair at my table. “You know, you really are somethin’.”
I look at my settings. Odd plates. One extra for Jesus, enough for the rest of the family.
These traditions come from her.
This house is a reflection of hers, of my favorite childhood memories.
It is hard to imagine this night the poets call holy as the new normal.
I think she will stay the same way forever, even long after she is gone.
A white, plump and curly-haired ghost in my kitchen telling me not to worry.
There will always be Babci.
Mój Babci. Ja cię kocham, Babcia.
After a long hiatus, I have returned with a Trifecta challenge answer. This week’s word was:
2. an interjection used to express disdain or reproach