My daughter and her husband get off work,
quarantine for 14 days, son and grandson as well.
My husband and I shelter alone.
We all drive hours and hours toward each other.
I sanitize, set up the condo kitchen.
My daughter arrives; I bury my head in her
soft hair until she whispers, Mama, it’s ok.
I hug her husband; he unloads the car seat.
Oh, the baby! Not yet into stranger danger,
he reaches up, lays his velvet head on my chest,
smells of sweet melon, is learning to giggle.
He holds my finger, studies my face.
My son’s car pulls up, I envelop my grandson
who grew a mustache, whose voice has changed.
My son’s curly hair blows in the warm breeze.
He sees his sister, says Hi Turkey, with that eye-twinkle.
I make dinner, watching them interact all the while.
Eggplant for my son, rellenos for my grandson,
my daughter’s favorite pasta, brownies for her husband.
We retell family stories, hold each other’s gaze.
The cuckoo clock startles me, but instead of cuckoo
I hear trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble.
Eyes blurred, I drop the gifted Journal of Dreams,
stare at walls, wait for the next call, FaceTime, Zoom.
