No to Roy Rogers or cartoon 
characters. Mama guides my choice
to a soft-sided, red plaid lunch box
that I won’t outgrow in a year or two
or three.

I get to choose what goes in it, too.
Smart Mama. She parks me
on the cookie aisle to choose 
while she shops for the dull stuff.
Pink snowballs? I have to weigh 
every option, always a different 
flavor from last week. 

When I open my lunch, everything 
is just right: white bread as soft as Mama’s 
hands, Duke’s mayo, lunch meat 
of the week, and the slight cherry scent 
of Jergen’s lotion.

Fifty years later I’ll wonder how 
she wrapped wax paper so tightly 
no sandwich escaped in the jostle 
to school, marvel how she packed 
a lunch and pried me from bed 
before hurrying to work. 
I’ll never see that side of Mama 
when I look in a mirror.
                        

Homemade cranberry sauce
and pumpkin pie—almost
all the trimmings, but made
for two.   

I sit down at last, drape 
the napkin on my lap.
The table’s spread with wedding 
dishes and silver not yet 
accustomed to use.
He thanks me for the meal.

We decided not to invite 
the usual holiday guests —
the insults masquerading as teasing, 
the voices growing louder, slurred,
or even the polite small talk ¬¬– 
like a well of mashed potatoes 
trying to hold back the gravy 
of anger.

I give thanks for quiet,
the new sound of home.