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Maybe That’s Why

John Kaprielian

In our last conversation
before she passed
my mother said to me
“Dad made me fresh
flounder and I ate some;
it was good.”

I don’t recall her last
words in that final
call I made from college,
though they were probably
“I love you” but I am sure
about the fish.

In my family food is just
another form of love
like matter and energy
equivalent and given freely.
Maybe it came from being
refugees, forced from their

homes, poor and starving.
You never left our home
hungry and the food was always
prepared with skill and
creativity. My grandmother
balked when I wanted to learn

to cook and again when her
own son took it up but
how else could we give all
that love when words failed or
were not quite enough.

The flounder was good
the flounder was love.

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