This was not a cotton candy year–
it lacked the levity or sweetness
of the barking pink cones,
nor was it a waffles-and-whipped cream year
served with Instagram-berries and fresh squeezed yuzu,
nor a wagyu steak year, sliced tableside,
by hushed voices wearing black coats.

This was not a year for fresh shaved truffles
atop a Swiss mountain or bucatini in a Roman alley,
or the earthy joy and rich laughter fed from these.
This was not a year of watermelons
big enough to feed the neighborhood. Or Nani’s
cannelloni. Or Grandma’s apple crisp.

More like an omakase year, chef’s choice–
but instead of sea urchin and silver kanpachi,
the chef served bitter greens, raw garlic,
and the watery chicken soup
I ate three days before my grandfather’s death.
I recall that soup most for its nothingness–
how could any food taste so little? And yet
its memory remains, despite my best efforts
at banana muffins.

Omakase, my choice.

Each fall, I wait
for the first rain–
the first real rain, not a sprinkle, teasing
but a grand overture, an opening
of the heavens, a pouring out of trumpets
bass and drums, an untethering.

When the clouds part and the last drops
settle on leaf or limb or trail,
in puddles bigger than my shadow,
the soft murmur of gutters clearing
and streets draining,
the bounce as each boot sinks
into spongy soil–
as I walk, breathing.

The rain was late this year.
The sky filled with dust and dirt and ash–
the cremation of lost homes,
the earth cracked like my hands,
cracked until almost bleeding,
almost–but no blood came out
and the dry leaves crumbled
and the sky turned orange, dark
as we choked with longing.

Now, breathe deep.  The crisp air hurts
as it reaches the depths of my lungs
for the first time in months. The scent
of wild fennel and oolong tea, tea-steeped
soil, waking a million microbes, roots and hopes.
My hands heal. A crow caws.
Beneath the crumbled leaves, in weeks
the hills will turn pale green, rousing
grass and weeds and life amidst
the charred foundations.

New life.  For us.