ending with a line by Margaret Duda

reared in the south means a girl learns young
how to cook and how to tell a good story
momma, sisters, maybe a cousin or two
gathered 'round a cooking pot, every apron
full of green beans to be snapped, inspected, 
tossed into the waiting pan of water. once
talking and snapping were done, pan went to stove
women (and girls) split up, one to fry bacon
another to chop onions, still others got busy
setting the oversized table. menfolk would be
coming home soon enough from a long day's work
hungry, thirsty, and full of their own stories
to tell over dinner and into the evening

i saw that and more as a visiting "little bit"
which was the standard description for anyone
as small as i was then. (not so much now)
we ate grits, and sunfish, and cornbread,
sweet tea for those who wanted it, ice water
for anyone else — foods both familiar and foreign
to a boy raised in new mexico by a mother
from alabama. she taught me how to fry chicken
in a cast iron skillet, use the drippings
to make milk gravy. taught me to blanch and peel
bushels of peaches to "put up" for winter

in those days of youthful ignorance, i never saw
the longing in her eyes for family too far away
to visit more than once every few years, the pull
of the south on her heart. but she had a family 
to feed and care for, and her memories flavored
everything we ate, everything we did as children

she never turned down a helping hand, but she never
left the kitchen to anyone else's hands. it was hers,
her safe place in the chaos of eight children
and her unquestioned contribution to our futures.
this late in life, i've finally realized that
for so many of the same unspoken reasons,
my mother needed to cook as much as i need to write                        

soft crinkle of plastic as i
open a package of sourdough bread

tangy aroma that whispers 
"you know me. you remember me."

resistance as i push down
the handle of the toaster until it clicks

muted crackles and pops as the toaster
comes to life. smell of burnt crumbs

loud crack as the sourdough pops up
sides unevenly browned, but perfect

curl of the butter as my knife
drags firmly across the surface

scrape, scrape, scrape of knife on toast
pale yellow of butter deepening as it melts

crisp crackle crunch of first bite
swirl of flavors on my tongue

contented sigh, wistful smile
acknowledgement that today i eat alone
                        

do we put them six pages under
so there's room for photos
and eulogies for those who 
didn't make it out?

do we bury them in obscurity
not deeming them important enough
to speak their names aloud
to remember them in prayer?

do we bury them in silence
because we cannot bear to hear
the stories they will tell of
living through hell and then

do we bury them in the next
news cycle as another and another
mass shooting occurs with 
more dead and more wounded?

do we bury them by withholding
the care they desperately need
leaving them to grapple with
the guilt of being alive?

where indeed do we bury those
whose pain and terror will never
be over, who will have no coffin
no closure, and no peace?

tell me, please, if you know
where do we bury the survivors?