This is just to say,

Issue 15 | Winter 2025 | Sean Thomas Dougherty

 

 Once an old woman rummaged 
              in the refrigerator 
looking for a package 
              of bacon 
her daughter said was in there. 
            “Look mom in the lower bin,” but it isn’t 
or it is hidden, & so she 
            rummages, & calls out to her daughter 
as if this bacon is more than bacon, 
            as if it means so much more, 
which is the way of things
            when one small failure 
or missing need can become a matter 
            of death 
& life, as if a mountain 
            we must climb, 
or a hole we dug 
            on our own we will fall into. 
But it isn’t all of this, 
            it is just an old woman, 
frustrated, bending her back, 
            calling to her daughter for help, 
who gets up off the couch, 
            flustered with the many times 
she has had to help 
            with a simple thing,
but she breathes,
            puts her hand on her old mother’s back, 
bends beside her, lifts a bag of lettuce 
            & puts it on the counter, 
a bag of peppers, & there 
            is the bacon, 
not in the meat bin, 
            these days such details often elude us, 
& my wife hands it to her mother 
            who grabs it & pulls it to her chest, 
as her daughter turns on the stove 
            to bake it in a pan, then kisses her mother 
on the top of her head. 
            & as the oven preheats, 
the old woman stands there, 
           cutting the bacon with scissors, 
putting the long greasy slices 
           on a baking sheet, 
& the house begins to smell 
           with the greasy aroma
that assuages any lament 
           the old woman had left in her. 
& on the counter, the tomatoes she grew, 
           slowly over summer, waiting for me 
to slice them: deep ripe red, 
           I place them on a plate.
My wife removes the bacon 
           from the oven
& then the old woman insists
           she layers them herself
on two pieces of white bread toast,
           slathers on the mayo,
& I help her sit at the table, 
           & the look on her face 
as she takes a bite & chews. 
           I want to say there is more to this, 
maybe in the way my wife 
           sits down again to read, 
maybe in how the clouds 
           look like Spanish Galleons 
sailing across the ocean 
           of the sky? Is there nothing 
more lucent that one could ask for 
           here in midsummer in the last years 
of any old woman’s life?