Lunch With My Aunt
Cammy Thomas
Where was that restaurant
she used to take me to,
a tiny French place
with steep stairs going up,
somewhere in the East 80s,
too expensive for me,
an omelet and a white wine,
surrounded by women
with styled hair, heels,
fancy shopping bags.
I loved that place
because I loved her.
I couldn’t answer
the questions she asked:
How were my parents?
Was I happy?
It felt safe there,
no men, no loud noises
except laughing sometimes,
and hearts of palm salad
with lemony vinaigrette,
me just learning to drink,
and a comfortable buzz after,
when she left for a meeting
and I staggered around the Met
looking for Greeks and Egyptians.
I always visited the mummies,
many on display back then
when it didn’t feel wrong to stare—
just an archaic warning.
How imagine the world
with her not in it?
Her apartment looked out
on 85th and Fifth.
A glass dolphin on her windowsill
made a prism on the opposite wall.
Deep in winter
the snow fell quietly
on Central Park and on
the gray roofs of the Museum.
