Chrysalis

Originally published in Waterways, Vol. 31, No. 3

For the Grayson women

In Aunt Susie’s kitchen, three women flutter
like agitated moths, discussing movies and weather
but never men or politics. Susie, armed with a bottle
of Tabasco and wearing a shirt that says “Gravity’s
a Bitch,” assaults the simmering brisket. Her red
nails match mine and my mom wonders

if we planned it that way. Hungry, I wonder
if we’ll eat before 10:00, if the flakes fluttering
down will continue through the night. Red
Allen croons on the stereo about Stormy Weather.
At 8:30, Nana, ninety and reliable as gravity,
rises from her nap. “Do we think two bottles

will be enough?” my mom asks, a bottle
of Bordeaux in her hands. Nana wonders
aloud if the store’s still open; the gravity
of the situation sets in. Amidst a flutter
of concerns about the inclement weather,
I help myself to a generous glass. The red

wine warms my mouth, soothing as Red’s
voice. Mom signals to me: Pass the bottle.
Two hours later, they argue over whether
I should keep trying to be an actress; I wonder
if I’ll ever learn to cook brisket, if the flutter
I feel is from the wine or the pull of gravity

in my chest. A curious thing, gravity,
I think, watching my mom and aunt wipe red
stains from their lips. This snow is no flutter,
it’s a full-blown storm. Nothing can stay bottled
up forever. “Sometimes I wonder…I wonder…”
Nana trails off. I want to ask whether

she believes in second chances, whether
she’s afraid of death, what’s beyond the grave.
But I say nothing. Susie laughs, “I wonder
if we have room for dessert—I baked a red
velvet cake.” The brisket and both bottles
are long gone. In a minute, I will flutter

to the kitchen with empty bottles. They’ll gripe about gravity’s
effect on their weathered bodies and discuss books recently read
while I flutter around like a firefly, lit within from wonder.