I feel sorry for those who have never had rhubarb juice
Who have never seen the angle of their grandmother's elbow pouring in club soda
To have a home made and homemade awaiting your laughter
To be gently nudged to leave all that drags you from present at the door, and to even forget it on your way home
Fresh rhubarb from her garden, grown by her hands
recipe passed down by her friend
Nellie’s rhubarb juice translates into memories and full cups
Sitting still for moments of hydration had with multi-generational gestures
Exclaiming at the hummingbirds on the other side of the window
As we table everything that doesn’t serve soul
I learned stillness in this house
And gentle hands, as everything of value in the house became fragile
When my grandpa’s memory became blurry and I turned into shadows
Imagine the joy of feeling seen by someone without sight
And grandma lost time, years un-had with him
And Nellie became a yesterday instead of decades ago to her
And this summer, I bought rhubarb
And made the juice, and bought the club soda
Elevated elbows
Nellie's rhubarb translated into memories and half-full cups
I wonder why I never made this with grandma
She didn’t show me how to get ready
And this year the house is on sale again,
And I don’t see a bird feeder
So many moments new owners missed out on
But they left her bookcases blue, but our photos aren’t there
And Just a few weeks ago, her younger reflection, who is my mother
Talks about the scattering of my other grandma's ashes
And that happened today without me
Grief held in covid didn’t make room for me
And I went outside
Only to see a bird in the bird bath, she made long ago
imprinted With giant rhubarb leaves
And I know I learned from her how to have words and messages that will outlive me
That even if my memory fades, I will have left behind enough that even empty glasses feel full
So as today translates into goodbyes and goodnights
I know her pouring elbow to be outpouring, reflected into hugs
And now held iPad over video calls
And My cousins and I pass along the recipe amongst each other in her own handwriting
And we sat on a beach this summer
discussing the first sip not made by her
And we all agreed, even though it wasn’t quite the same
That nostalgia sure does taste sweet