Sundays at Nonna’s
My grandmother always frowned At her reflection. “La vecchiaia è brutta,” she would say With a sigh as she looked down At her hands, Where she saw deep folds and wrinkles In her skin, Like they were one of my grandfather’s shirts, Which she was unable to smooth out. With resolve, she chose to drain the water From her eyes into a pot, Where it began to boil The raw dough she kneaded With the valleys of her hands. She served us dinner with tomato sauce From her veins,…
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