— after Gabrielle Calvocoressi

You know I wouldn’t do much quilting —
words are my fabric — but I’d love
to trace the patterns again, admire
your tiny stitches. And I’d like you
to make me a hamburger for breakfast
with your sweet homemade ketchup,
but I’d also like to make you a good meal,
show you how all that cooking we did
in your kitchen taught me something,
like that cheesecake we made without
any of the right ingredients, how you
made do with what you had, how you
made your own life after grandpa died — a life
full of berries in a deer-proof cage you built,
full of long winters at the quilting rack,
and always ice cream and molasses cookies.
Miss you. The bread just came out of the oven.