On my lunch hour I walk by
Erzo’s and smell the garlic.
From there, I am transported into my grandmother’s kitchen.
Bright, with yellow curtains and granite buffet top, imported from Italy.
The raviolis, bread and antipasto on the table.
The mother Mary looking down from her portrait on the wall.
Cousins coming over.
Mom baking sugar cookies.
Kathy and I fighting to get into the bathroom.
Have to be like big sister.
Can’t go back.
Even lunch at Erzo’s doesn’t fill the emptiness.