Eating It

That June, our home overflowed
with chocolate cakes,
chicken dinners, fruit baskets.
Someone brought
boiled peanuts from Virginia,
and we never figured out
who left the candy corn
on the doorstep.
At 13, I was overjoyed,
basking in the abundance
while my mom cracked
open dry letters and
poured over unpaid bills.

The night before he died
I cooked scallops
in butter
and they reminded me of sand.


Nellie Vinograd is based in Bethesda, MD and writes free-verse poetry about change, loss, memory, and desire. She is a proud alum of her tiny North Carolina college, Guilford, where she received a B.A in English and sociology. Her writing often explores rituals and family traditions in order to understand what is sacred in them. She aims to make sense of all that is banal or messy in life.

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