My grandmother used to say
Don't go empty-handed…
I never heard her speak the words,
words I've inherited from her daughter,
my mother, who'd rather have been late
to stop at a bakery or wine shop or florist
than be on time with nothing in hand.
Don't go empty-handed!
I told my sons for years, and they
rolled eyes, shrugged shoulders,
conveniently forgot the tins of cookies
or gallons of ice cream or bottles of soda.
They said it's not necessary, embarrassing
to be that kid and I, lover more than fighter
locked into throwdown mode,
threw fits of rare belligerence.
Last week my firstborn son
told me his elderly choir professor
hosted the whole chorale at home
to celebrate the season’s end.
She cooked for all assembled,
layers of lasagna, Caesar salad,
rented round tables, cloth napkins.
He stayed to help do dishes,
collapsed tables, bundled linens,
swept the kitchen, scrubbed counters.
Hours earlier, he’d been late,
had stopped at 7-Eleven, bought
a bag of chips, a tub of dip.
My mom says don't go empty-handed!
he told her, his long arms searching
her highest shelves for a bowl.
Written beside “Red Brocade” by Naomi Shihab Nye
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