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We loved to listen to Nana's stories,
while grandpa sat and never said a word.
Recounted tales, brought forth
from cherished possessions.
A blue, Turkish fez, that no one still wore;
A red Persian rug, stained with history; a large, tobacco pipe,
atop the TV, the golden monolith
to male tradition.
Her cooking brought her to America
at only fourteen. She earned her passage.
Her father had crossed early to find work,
but never sent for them.
A shy, mild mother, more burden than help,
Nana led the way to Paris.
One town at a time, cooking to escape
the murdering Turks.
Roasting rice for rich families. Saving
her money for yet another short ride,
each town closer to the home she dreamed of,
farther from fear.
Eating her juicy dolmas, I have no
doubt her stories are true. Her gnarled
fingers stroke my hair, she smiles and feeds me
love from a pan,
Telling of grandpa who learned to make wine,
prohibition sales in south Chicago,
How he ran down dangerous alleys, an old gallon
jug under each arm.
Nana made tea from an old samovar,
heating the water as ritual.
Drank it from a glass with lemon candy
tucked in her lip.
Her thinning gray hair in a serviceable
bun on her neck. Until night, where it would
unwind til it reach her waist.
Sheherazade.
Grandpa could never have married Nana
back there. She had quality,
he, the hands of labor.
The new country brought change.
Her father was a lazy man who had left
A family behind; relieved to strike a
deal. Grandpa bought Nana for five chickens,
fifty pounds of rice,
the going price for the daughters of rich
men, newly poor in America.
She hated him for it, said so each day,
for fifty years.
He walked six miles to get her special bread
each morning. Seven kids in seven years.
They built a life safe from fear. When he died,
she cried the loudest.
SHANNAN KAIN
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