29 Mar Lunchtime by Rachel Riddell
my nonna was the last to eat in her family,
scooping bowls of pastina soup
for her husband and children,
hovering over the table in case
there were pleads for more
parmesan or pepper,
serving seconds before she got her first;
a comforting lunch turned lukewarm
by the time she sits in the kitchen
alone.
while spooning mouthfuls down her throat
sunlight pours on to the table,
illuminating details of the soup:
rice-shaped pasta,
peas, cheese, and carrots,
immersed in a chicken broth
birthed from the bones of
last night’s dinner—
she imagines the bowl is as hot
as when the soup was first served,
mentally trying to replicate
the flavour and heat that
her husband and children experienced.
sunlight pours on to the table,
and she is reminded,
despite the cold broth,
that it is a blistering July—
her children run through a sprinkler
while her husband watches them
from a lawn chair,
and she watches him,
smoking a cigarette in the garden.
my nonna gathers all the dishes,
empty except for the
peas and carrots left by her son
—who is more keen on the cheese—
and places them in the sink.
before running the tap,
she looks out the window,
her husband now spraying
the children with a hose,
their laughter roaring into the kitchen
with smiles as wide as their faces.
her daughter wears a
white linen dress that
my nonna sewed in the spring,
wet and clinging to her body
while she runs through
the sprinkler yet again.
her daughter’s hair,
blonde and damp,
reminds my nonna of her husband years ago,
laying on a towel in Italy
days before they left for Canada,
enjoying the last of Lake Como
before Lake Ontario;
enjoying the last of their youth
before the youth of their children.
her daughter’s hair,
long and thick
compared to summers before,
dries underneath her husband’s towel,
and my nonna expects
there aren’t many summers left that
her daughter will remind her
of her husband but
will soon become like her:
trading water and sunshine for
water and soap.