WHEN ALMONDS APPEAR

by Judy Trupin

Before we speak of war

of enemies

of those deserving to die

please imagine your grandmother

in her lilac flowered housecoat

nylon, I think

holding out a chipped blue plate

with slightly burned almond cookies.

you don’t like almond cookies

but you take one

chew it out of love

your grandmother smiles

and you return the smile.

as you lean in to hug her

her image dissolves into the other

the one you have learned to hate

the ones whose offspring perhaps are killing your neighbors

as your relatives are perhaps killing hers.

her bones are sturdier than your grandmother's

the skin on her arms a few shades different from yours

her dress a soft moss green

but she still holds the chipped blue plate of almond cookies

an offering

you invite her in

you'd like to ask her to call in her offspring

and you will invite your parents, uncles and aunts

to sit together 

smooth out all that matters

but that is not to be.

your grandmother returns

scatters almonds on the countertop

one for every child killed this week

dough appears

you cannot tell from where.

the grandmothers in tandem

pound smooth and roll

partition it for the almonds

one for every child 

you watch 

you count the endless stream of cookies

as tray after tray  is set in the oven.

Outside

the war goes on.

Judy Trupin is a writer, yoga instructor and teacher of adult immigrants. She has recently left New York City behind and is exploring life in Pittsburgh.

THANKSGIVING ON MY MIND

by George Salamon

Digital Painting of an old woman’s hands by Victoria Castro.

I confronted my fondest memory of Thanksgiving,

not long ago, as the oven door was opened to baste

the turkey with yet another coating of bubbly pan

juice, that was to make the meat more tender, when

I heard the scratching of Cleo's paw at the kitchen 

door shut to her, Cleo the golden retriever who knew

what she smelled and what she wanted, while the

humans were told not to didscuss the important things

they cared about—politics and race, the economy 

and money, having it all or having nothing at all, the

state of the union and the abuse of the environment—

while the word important made my skin crawl I

thought of Cleo's paw and glanced over to the old

grandma, eyes shut and the sensitivity in her lapped

leathery hands, that feeling in the tips of her fingers

for all living things and understood the paw and her

fingers mattered and counted, and the rest belonged

with all that stuff we sought and still seek at the mall.

George Salamon is fond of the German word Fingerspitzengefuehl—the feeling at the tips of your fingers. It seems to him that we will lose it completely with all that clicking on the computer and smart phone. Have a lovely Thanksgiving weekend —anyway.