Summer in Amber
My husband and I cherished the summer of 2015. Recognizing it would probably be the last summer I could eat, we cooked compulsively, squeezing every bit of flavor out of each sacred moment in our tiny kitchen. This poem is an ode to both the memories and food we made during those golden months.
—
"Summer in Amber"
We held that whole summer
In our strawberry sticky hands,
Trapped it in our tiny kitchen
Where sunbeams tangled with our legs
Around too much furniture,
Each piece an island
Of earth-born treasure:
Cardboard cartons of berries
on the unfinished wood cart,
Artichokes and avocados,
Mangoes, tomatoes, and ginger root
On the battle-scarred table.
Sometimes a lone carrot
Hid from our merciless knives.
We hid, too,
From the diagnosis
That confirmed,
Even scheduled,
My end.
During those hours,
Our fears dulled to hum as
We took turns navigating
The narrow channels
Of the archipelago,
My hips and your feet
Too wide to sail in tandem.
We worked on recipes and honesty,
Rushing to use all the food
Before it spoiled
Sharing fragile secrets
Before they
Rotted us.
September stole those
Golden months away,
Leaving us gripping memories of
Overflowing brown paper bags
From the local farm.
Hanging baskets
By the window held pounds of
Onions, beets, and sweet potatoes.
They’d spent long enough underground
Dreaming of the sun.
Best of all, I imagined
The round prints of your toes
On the flour-coated floor:
Our very own
Happy paths.
–
Reflections on this poem, nine years later...
Knowing every meal during this time was one closer to my last, I ate with a robust, messy joy. One man had the audacity to advise that I only eat fruit going forward. Another person warned that I would get fat. Call me a feminist, but I doubt people would have been so vocal about my portion size and weight if I were a man.
The ignorance and judgment I faced when I ate "too much" prepared me for more and worse as I lost the ability to speak. I slurred my words like a drunk. My voice became nasal and high, then unintelligible to all – except my husband Evan. He became my interpreter even though we never left my homeland. I was downgraded from a teacher with a Master's degree to a toddler in strangers’ eyes, but what do they know? I build palaces in my mind!
I realized the sour experiences also heightened the sweet. Nearly a decade later, I know that I've survived because of what I learned from both flavors.
Somehow I didn't anticipate that cutlery would eventually become lead in my hands. I wasn't prepared to revert to infancy and be fed. As I watched Evan cut my omelet into tiny pieces, I was certain what happened next would be degrading. However, when Evan brought the omelet to my parted lips and slid the food into my mouth, I felt only profound intimacy. We came to cherish our new mealtime ritual with the sensual sweetness of strawberries dipped in chocolate.
Needing to be fed taught me that accepting help is as much a skill as giving it. I've relished giving ever since my first volunteer gig feeding the homeless in first grade. I couldn't reach the food so I stood with my parents in the kitchen behind the counter. After the last meal was served, someone gave me ice cream for "helping." I knew I hadn't earned that ice cream. I ate it, but I wasn't happy about it. That's how driven I was - and have been ever since that bittersweet ice cream - to help others.
But now I’m the one who needs help. I’m fully paralyzed, only able to move my eyes. If I need the toilet or medication, am hungry or cold, I rely on others, and much to my surprise, I’m OK with that.
Savor the sweet and sour that life offers you. Accept both flavors with a grateful heart and enjoy the beautiful medley on your tongue. It may very well be temporary.