Popcorn

M. stood staring at the microwave with her hand over her mouth. At 50 years old she is just learning to count and today, for the first time, she pushed the numbers on the keypad of the microwave. "It's hot, when you take it out," we showed her, teaching her how to open the bag. M. laughed and laughed when she tasted it. "It already has salt! Americans make everything so easy," she said in Somali. We counted to ten over and over as we ate pre-salted popcorn and spiced chai tea.

Sleep

My fingers are sore from tearing raw cotton and my heart is sore from the stories of her past. I say that I ache inside but still I can drive home and recite the alphabet and make a phone call to fix the broken cable box and cook pancakes on the stove. What was once a footprint in the snow is now a puddle on the front lawn. I don’t know how to remove all of the seeds. I’m so much slower than her teenage boy (it’s 1pm and he is still not yet dressed for school). I tear at the fragments until they are smaller fragments of their predecessors. We combine our pieces until they are whole, like carnival candy, sickly sweet. She sold the fish and the bird and tells me she will move to Florida where she can wake up and see the sun. She begs me not to leave. I hope the boy makes it through high school. I hope the snow melts more than hearts. I hope the bird has a new home where it can use its wings. I hope a cotton pillow will help her fall asleep. 

Yoga Love Pile