Busia

Busia Heather Danielewicz

Her wrinkled hands knead the dough Worn from years of hard work Scrubbing floors to make enough To buy Levi's at Sears for my father She presses her hand deeper into the mound And flattens the soft glob out with a rolling pin

We can almost see eye to eye I've grown since she last saw me She remarks Her silver hair is cut short She covers it with a knitted hat She was always bundled up in sweaters and hats

I'm the little girl hovering by her side Doing my ballet routine for her A few ungraceful twirls and kicks She softly presses her hands together As if in prayer And smiles Praising my dancing Telling me I'll be a dancer some day Mixing Polish with her thickly accented English

She works all day In our kitchen Teaching my mom how to make poor man's perogies Ox tail stew And her special apple pie A true Polish artist Mixing recipes from her homeland With words of wisdom and love

I'm a child Spinning by her side Watching her cook Practicing the Polish she teaches me I've forgotten most of it

Now whenever my mother cooks Polish food I think of Busia Standing in the kitchen Listening to All My Children Yelling at the characters on TV Watching me spin at her side Mixing Polish with English

Her hands reaching deep into the dough The faint smell of mothballs and perfume And I'm spinning So fast That the memories become a blur