Over and over you ask me how to make oatmeal.
I buy the small, brown packets,
Show you how to scissor them open,
Add water, stir, set in the microwave.
You nod that you understand.
The next day when I come, you ask me
How to make oatmeal.

You have a caregiver who cooks your meals,
Buy you explain, “I want to make it for you girls.
Remember how on school days,
I always made oatmeal?”
I agree that I remember.  You were the teacher then,
A widow with two little girls.

“With brown sugar,” I remind you,
“A teaspoon each.”
“And whole milk,” you add.
“I made you drink your milk.”

The next day you ask me how to make oatmeal.
I reach for the box of little brown packets,
Beginning to understand.

The next time I visit, I bring you
A tall red, white and blue curving carton,
Complete with smiling Quaker.
You do not ask.  You unwind the lid
And plunge in your hand,
Sifting through the firm, dry flakes,
Taking a deep breath of oat scent.

Together we fill the saucepan and turn on the stove,
Wait till the water bubbles and stir.
As our porridge thickens, you ask if I’ve finished my arithmetic,
Know my spelling words.  I assure you it is done.
I find the box of sugar, bring milk to the table.

In the fading light we face each other,
Eating our memory supper,
For the first time in a long while,
Our minds in the same place.

Joanne M. Clarkson
Olympia, WA