Learning Love Later in Life  

1.

The bread was home made and constant.

For months, he brought me loaves to take or tear open.

After our first kiss he bought me a bread maker.

“But you already have one,” my friend Heidi said, “Him.”

She knew I was afraid I lacked the right ingredients

or time to use his gift,

felt only pressure to make and failure

to rise.

To fall in love while afraid

is terrifying.

But how could it be otherwise

for those of us

with tender child flesh

and bones

left to marinate

in rot,

uncovered on the counter.

It’s not about blame.

Some cries

fail to illicit mother’s

milk or warmth,

when mommy feels only

rage or exhaustion,

hides in cigarettes, work or pillows

to cushion disbelief

because she too was not lifted.

We feel what we won’t see

and what happens under roof,

blankets and skin

is tatooed to soul

and sandwiched by marrow.

What daddy passes off

as affection and others say is just “dirty old men.”

It’s over now

but baked within,

still cooking.

Not pain, but knowledge,

coming before words could speak.

“Stop,” “No” or “Help”

don’t work

with people without ears for kin.

Grown now.

Still fear,

I had to name over and over again.

Fear, I had to guide

into the backseat like a new puppy, reach

my hand behind my back while driving

as she barked or whined.

I’d say, “There, there” or

move her body when she tried to get into my lap

or under foot between the brakes and gas.

Screaming “No” we know

does not work

without a “Yes” to move into

and that too we will need to find, create or locate.

Fear couldn’t stop jumping

without a bone, toy or distraction.

Fear wasn’t bad or wrong

but protective, untrained and hyperactive.

I have had to learn to patience,

to help fear settle in and down.

It’s a skill I’ve not yet mastered

but at last can see the benefit of practice.

2.

Our love became a broth that simmers on the pot,

stirred

by a wooden spoon

we take turns

holding.

He chops onions.

I cut pepper.

Mushed garlic perfumes another pan.

 

We fight

to give each other –

our favorites, the

crusty ends where the flavor

hides and is cornered.

The ends of bread are also beginnings.

Some love these pieces best when others will cut them off and discard them.

“For you,” we each insist

while buttering or holding.

Who will bend and bite, lead or follow, get nourished or devoured?

What are the rules

in a relationship

between two givers?

He is seeing

I am sawing.

We must take turns to keep the balance.

Can it be this simple and without drama?

A recipe doubled, not halved

can feed more and for longer

if we can keep it fresh

or freeze the extra.

He swears the bread can be made repeatedly,

will bake as I sleep,

and the aroma will greet me warm with coffee.

The rules of bounty and enough

are unfamiliar, I struggle

with worry.

3.

The parmesan is plastic, not fresh,

I am not stocked

with a block

I can pull and grate.

For him, I want to be plentiful,

so he will lick the lingering

off my tongue and fingers.

I want him to feel

my base of warmth,

even as I’m trembling.

“You need taking care of too,” he said

when I was sick.

“You take care of me,” I said, “And I do too.”

“No you don’t,” he said on his way into my bathroom,

“only after you take care of others.”

Was I supposed to hear?

Sellf-neglect would have seemed a compliment once

but I no longer want to be Wonder Bread.

It isn’t healthier. It never molds because it’s pumped with chemicals.

I’m tired of preserving emptiness.

Breaking the cycle means stopping,

accepting help

and allowing.

But this too feels foreign.

We were standing in the dark

on my deck.

“May I put…?”

he asks.

“Yes please,” I reply, finally.

where I have wanted a motion sensing light for five years.

“Knowing light is needed doesn’t make me an electrician.”

“They come with batteries that last a year” he said.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said, wondering what other darkness I could step out of if I hunted for light rather than adjusted to blindness.

I hate how good I am at being cold or without a flashlight.

I’m too tired and old and have relieved myself of that burden.

No one needs feels a martyr as love and I have filled that statue with my cold numbness for decades.

4.

Just nights before I told him of my childhood,

scratches burned under my skin

sandwiched between

heart and soul.

Tears salted the clam chowder

which he served,

words spilled off the spoon of my tongue.

At least, at midlife, I have stopped apologizing.

My past is not a reason or excuse why I do

or don’t do

anything

I don’t want to.

But nothing makes it delicious.

Nothing makes it easier to say or swallow.

I have found nothing better than the truth to chase the truth with.

I feared he’d run

but knew that if he did

I’d have to let him.

Who and how I am

is no longer shelved in the bargain bin

those who hunt for sales in damaged goods

won’t find it here.

She who can get hurt,

stay sane and sober

without turning dead or mean

gets to hang with the moon.

and fall with the stars.

I do.

I am.

This does not mean I was not

wounded, pained or injured.

I was.

I am.

And still suspicious

of love

that is kind

voluntary and frequent.

I will weather the discomfort of this adjustment, take pride and pleasure knowing my daughter will see a me happy, healthy and capable of giving and receiving.

Bread man takes photos from his book of recipes and shares them via text.

I improvise and sample, add raisins (which work), use wheat flour, (a disaster).

We do not cook the same but love bread equally.

So much to taste and share: get-well toast when ill,

extra slices for a neighbor’s sandwich –

enough in the morning for my daughter’s breakfast.

No one need

go hungry

in love or life

with more

than one

bread maker.