Julie

A woman at my work
smells like Grandma

You can't just tell
a person that

Julie (her name is Julie)
every time she walks by,


her kitchen wafts through my office
beans, tortillas, parcon and carnitas

Every time, I want to get in my car
and drive two hours just to see her

to envelop my arms around her
even if all she'll do is talk about the pain

and offer me food though I've already eaten
"You're too skinny, mija. Lemme make you something."

But that once burned out kitchen across the street
stands empty and still, the pans

packed and carted off to Phoenix, and grandma
just a voice ooing and ouching on the phone

wondering where exactly things went wrong
"You speak to your mother today? Why won't she call?"

I tell her I miss her, but I don't have time to visit
working as much as I do

I hang up, make lunch, go to bed, wake up
far away from the hundred degree days

never knowing when or if or how
I'll see her again


Yet there is Julie, walking by
as I'm buried in my readings

Every time, there is her kitchen
if only for a moment-- her

How do you thank someone
for that?