Tiny Resurrections

My sister and I don’t argue over much because there’s nothing to argue over.
Maybe a couple real diamonds in the mix of cut glass and zircons.

After the last box is packed, we sit down to make copies of family recipes.
The book ragged; its cover held on by yellowed masking tape.

The paper crisp as parchment between plastic sleeves, us like white-gloved
archivists, unwrapping each card holding a cursive all its own.

The delicacy of the T scrolled like music notes through Great Aunt Tilly’s
rice pudding, like the piano she learned to play in the homes

of the houses she kept. We barely make out the curls of Auntie Mart’s
sour cream apple pie resembling the shape of her rheumatoid hands.

And that card red-wine-stained like a Rorschach test, the oyster dressing
from your mother, who we called “Big Grandma.” The O so round

we can almost see the curve of her belly, the way the basket nestles
in the folds as she harvests her herbs. It’s not the recipes we want.

It’s the handwriting. We deal them out like a holy hand of cards, all of them
laid out like tiny resurrections. I know we make them precious.

But outside the snow is melting, shapes of flakes still cling to the windows
edge.
A family of deer appear under the lamppost. An icicle falls from its
branch.

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Poet and Printmaker, Tammy Greenwood is a Louisiana native residing in California. Since graduating from California State University, San Bernardino, she continues her studies while working on her upcoming book of poetry. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and her work appears or is forthcoming in Rattle, Door is a Jar, ONE ART, Rust & Moth, Orange Blossom Review, San Pedro River Review, Poetry South, Emerge Literary Journal, FERAL, and elsewhere.