On a day like Easter, I’m surrounded by family. Holidays are a priority for my family. We all gather, every year, every holiday.

There’s a sweetness to it: Seeing everyone in the same spaces year after year, eating the same shared dishes year after year. It’s a time to catch up, and it’s where our collective memories are made.

And while the gatherings are expected, I’m also aware of the way reality can feel incredibly present in the room. People are gone, due to death or other life events, while others arrive through birth or partnership. It’s bittersweet with each passing season.

Holiday gatherings make up so much of my memory of Racine. In the years when I didn’t live in town, my experiences of Racine were limited mostly to holiday gatherings. These times are so special to me. I want to remember them, the big things about them but also the small things about them. The laughs of my little cousins, the way my grandma will never accept help with the dishes. How we eat the same things every time, regardless of the holiday. How the house is always too hot. The way we never find all the Easter eggs and the way tinsel from the Christmas tree makes its way into every room.

I want the things that feel unique to my family to always be there, and I think poetry is a great vessel for this. I’m not the only one.

Here are two poems that I just love for the way they capture the desire to hold the sacredness of family close.

Wild Blueberry Muffins for Beginners
By Caroline Laganas

1 berry-stained month of summer
1 grandmother
2 cups flour
½ cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon nutmeg
2 brown eggs
½ cup milk
½ cup melted butter
2 cups wild blueberries
Cinnamon sugar (to taste)

1. Heat oven to 400°F. Dig into flour to unearth inherited secrets. Watch your grandmother when she advises, “Let me show you a trick.” Use a knife’s flat edge to run over brimming measuring cups. Scoop. Slice. Pour. Repeat with sugar, baking powder, and salt. Scoop. Slice. Pour. By the time you measure nutmeg, proficiency coats your palms.
2. Against another bowl’s lip, kiss a brown egg until it breaks. Slippery yolk escapes. Repeat. Whisk until dizzying pale-yellow streaks appear. Beat in milk, melted butter, and dry mixture. Let your hope run wild around the bowl. Add blueberries.
3. Dollop batter into a greased muffin pan. Sprinkle cinnamon sugar on top. Listen to her say, “Don’t be shy.” Satisfaction sticks to your fingertips with every extra pinch.
4. Bake fifteen minutes. Remove muffins while your grandmother presents a toothpick from her apron. Trust her when she suggests, “Try this.” Poke a muffin’s heart. If it glides out gooey, ask yourself, “Will I ever be as good as her?”
5. Believe her when she whispers, “Patience.”

Family Reunion
By Dorianne Laux

Camera in hand, I call out to them,

one by one, in twos and threes,

working up to the group shots,

the family portrait.

My nephews, scrubbed clean, dressed

in red, hug each other’s mirror image

and smile the same smile.

Head to head, their dark hair mingles

as the shutter clicks.

Now I sit the baby between them,

my niece who has my eyes, my nose,

a stranger’s wide mouth.

The flash going off in her face

makes her love the small black box

I hold, so much, she is willing to pose

forever, as if I held the force

of the sun, a gorgeous toy, and all

her days balanced in my hands.

Grandmother squeezes in, holds

her baby’s babies in her diminishing lap,

circles the shoulders of her son,

her daughters, my own shy daughter,

and pulls them into the frame,

the fine lines of noses and chins

a painter’s signature stroke.

I take picture after picture,

the windows going darker

with each bright flash, each face

held up to the repetition of light.

But when I look to see how many frames

are left, I find the tiny window

in the camera is empty, remember

the film left on my dresser

500 miles away. I smile at my family,

ask them to stay where they are

just a few minutes longer as I press

the blank shutter again

and again, burning their images into my own

incorruptible lens, picture

after perfect picture, saving them all

with my naked eye, my bare hands,

the purest light of my love.

This week, I’ll writing about my family and the little moments of our time together that I want to make sure not to miss. If your experience of Racine is heavily rooted in your own family, I’d encourage you to do the same. Consider the moments of meaning you find when gathered, the things your elders say, the recipe that’s been passed down, the stories you’ve heard again and again, the games played, the spaces inhabited. You’ll be glad you jotted it all down.

As always, if you’re interested in sharing your work, send it my way at sklblauren@gmail.com.

I look forward to reading!

Best,
L.A. Sklba