There was no other salad in our home
but salata. Greens from the garden
spring through fall and the anemic
head lettuce for winter.
Oil. Vinegar. Salt.
The recipe straightforward like
all the women in the family.
When I tear the leaves my hands
are many hands:
the thick, worn fingers of Baka
the club-nailed ones of Baba
and the nimble digits of my mother.
We all mix them, with the salt and vinegar
then lace it with oil.
We all stand at the sink staring out
the window, our hips swaying with each toss.
Later, something so elemental as this
became a jumbled set of steps and missed
ingredients for my Baka. Even her speech,
called word salad by the doctor, lost
pattern, structure and order.
words—tearing over her dentures
mangled, chopped up
hands—rolling almost as if she was caught
in the permanent preparation of a bowl
and her stare, the stone face of a woman,
somewhere still working to keep her family fed.