“The seeds of poetry reside in every heart,” Beth began.

Beth continued, “There is speculation that the air we breathe might contain traces of figures who peopled the earth long ago. Whether this conjecture will ever be proven is uncertain, but the inspired words of many who came before us, are breathed again and again by those who share the joy of poetry. Whether a poem is ancient or contemporary, its capacity to evoke a visceral in-breath, to transcend the intellect and reach into our hearts and souls, lends itself so beautifully to that most therapeutic of recognitions: We are not alone.

“This workshop is based on the belief and the practices that followed to manifest that belief, that poetry can help us discover and express our authentic and heartfelt view of life. That it can provide a way of sharing our humanity; and that the creation of poetry is every human being’s birthright, not just the province of a select few. So, I invite you on this brief journey today with the intention that it will be a “Buon Viaggio” to a path of more profound engagement with your own life and creativity. I hope it will nourish the garden of words ready to blossom inside you.”

She hoped they contained answers to questions she was too fearful to even form. But the words were enigmatic to her. She was grasping, led down another delusional path by the great Yeats, she thought. She had been reading about him and his wife’s automatic writing. This was her attempt at it; seemingly, a failed one. Her life until now had turned on the fervent wish to be the object of the Yeats stanza:

She contemplated the burnished gold-green of the apples, arranged in a pyramid in a luminous glass bowl on the coffee table. She reached for one, pressed her thumb into its skin, feeling for bruises. The apple’s flesh did not yield, so she brought it to her lips. She savored the tangy sweetness so intently, she didn’t notice him enter the room. When she did break her apple reverie, it was only reluctantly, with a half-nod of acknowledgment, while her knuckles brushed away some juice that had run down her chin.

She was glad she hadn’t noticed him right away. She was incapable of ignoring him. She considered this moment a gift from the Golden Delicious apple goddess. The thought made her giggle to herself, but she had to be careful. Ed’s temper was easily triggered. It was downright exhausting. She stuck the apple in her mouth, fixed it there with her teeth, like a pig on a spit at an imaginary luau. Maybe this would make him laugh.

Ed ignored her and turned on the television. He sat down and rearranged a few objects on the coffee table with his nostrils flared in a disdainful sneer. When they first met, he had been charmed by her awkward spatial sense and flattered by her admiration of his natural acumen with objects. Now, her deficiencies stirred unbridled resentment in him. He had largely disconnected from their home, but took some pleasure in a display of superiority that could be obtained with a few shifted objet d’art. He gloated as if he had just executed a shocking victory on a chess board. He knew she still sought to please him. He wiped his hand across the now bare area once occupied by an empty vase, eradicating a demarcation of dust. It was a deft flourish, a punctuating insult to her housekeeping.

The apple’s flesh succumbed to the pressure of her teeth. Its texture was mealy in her mouth, and she swallowed it uncomfortably. She placed the apple on a napkin beside her. Damn. She was starting to cry. She reached for a book. Words were her terra firma. She prayed. It is all in God’s hands, she thought to herself; just have some faith. She flipped through the book’s pages, as if spinning a roulette wheel. In another attempt at divination, she stopped at a random page. There, she read St. Teresa of Avila’s gentle reprove:

“Christ has no.. hands.. on earth now.. but yours.”

Lucy’s small, sweet hands were held in a mudra that made them appear like two pink magnolia buds, balanced on the knees of her crossed legs. Her eyes were closed. Her face was in soft repose as her pale blond hair fell like corn silk on her shoulders.

Her older sister, Tess, squirmed, tilted her head from side to side, and rolled her eyes. Her exhalations were loud and exaggerated. She twirled a lock of her russet-colored hair around her finger and then brought it under her freckled nose pretending it was a mustache.

Beth suppressed a laugh. Then she pressed her palms together and whispered, “Now, we will take a deep breath and then chant the word ‘peace’ together three times.” Their chant created an arc of sound that encircled them. Beth closed her eyes and let her daughters’ voices wash over her.

“Okay my sweethearts, time for bed now. Let’s say our prayer.” She tucked them in, smoothed their patchwork quilts, and placed their favorite stuffed animals next to them. She hugged each one of them tightly and then kissed them on their foreheads before quietly leaving their room.

“Goodnight, Mommy,” they singsonged in unison.

“Goodnight.”

“Beth, you really should write. The girls are in school now; you have the time.” Aunt Ro was always nudging her on to greatness. She produced a folded handkerchief from her quilted purse. “Look, dear. This is a million dollars in the making!” Beth smiled and leaned in to see what it was. “I fold the handkerchief into the shape of a rose. Then I attach this little poem. It’s perfect for bridal shower favors. I think this is my breakthrough product!”

Beth nodded, “It could be! It’s very pretty.” Aunt Ro gazed dreamily into space for a few moments and then stuffed her fortune back in her purse. She gathered her shawl around her and prepared to leave.

“But back to you, Bethy. I am holding you accountable this time! I want you to send me something by the time I get back from Italy. I don’t care if it is a damn grocery list. I want to see something you have written!” Sparky, Tess and Lucy’s apricot-colored Morkie, barked in seeming affirmation. Beth and Aunt Ro laughed together.

“And listen to these. I think you will enjoy them.” Aunt Ro tapped the plastic case that held a CD set of introductory Italian lessons.

“Will do!”

Aunt Ro wrapped her arms around Beth and stroked her hair. Beth felt tension leave her body; tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. In Aunt Ro’s embrace, she was a child again.

Grandma showed Beth how to dip slices of eggplant into an egg wash and then into a coating of flour and bread crumbs seasoned with pungent oregano, freshly grated parmesan, and crushed basil. She placed them gently into the awaiting pan that bubbled with gold-green olive oil and floating bits of minced garlic. They landed with a spit and pop, and sent small sprays of garlic-infused oil into the air that made Beth’s mouth water.

Grandma transferred several golden fried eggplant cutlets from the paper towels they were cooling on to a rose-patterned dish. She handed the dish to Beth, who eagerly took it outside to share with her cousins. The screen door creaked against the push of her hand. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the screen’s crisscross pattern. The air proclaimed the first tinge of spring — bearing a mildness, a touch of warmth, and the scent of earth opening and blossoms to come.

Beth remembered that day as if it had just happened. She remembered it in her hands, her nose, and her taste buds. All these years later, it remained visceral and alive, yet irretrievable. She had been nine at the time, twenty-five years ago. Now, long after the last medallion of eggplant had been savored, bathed in grandma’s fresh marinara, she could still taste it. So many years had passed since the sun set on that early spring day, yet Beth still felt its breeze on her skin. Beth thought of the passage of time and how strange it all seemed. At some point that day, the pots and pans were washed and put away, the lights turned off for the evening. Perhaps a month later, the full bag of flour had been depleted, and the liter can of olive oil proffered a last drop. Some years forward, the refrigerator that contained the ingredients of so many meals met its planned obsolescence, and grandma’s home bore a “for sale” sign. The years — many years, blessedly — tumbled forth, until that snowy March day when grandma closed her eyes forever. But in Beth’s mind, in her heart, in her every cell, grandma still breathed.