Custards first this morning,
always in memory of the mothers

who made them—Elizabeth and
Margery, mother and daughter—

though I am not related to them
technically, certainly so spiritually,

deep in my bones, family
in the best way. Now I make

them for Margery’s husband
as well as her daughter who

long ago adopted me as aunt,
both of whom find comfort

in the little cups of eggy
sweetness that she used to

make, the one who taught me,
her legacy continuing.

While the custards bake, I head
outside to plant a tall pink

lupine that called to me
at the nursery, a replacement

for one of the babies slug-nibbled
to the ground. In another time

I’d’ve installed it in a big pot
on my mother’s patio, hoping

that her diminishing vision
would allow her not only to see it

but also remember to water it,
knowing that she would likely not,

but that my sister and I would
do so on our frequent visits.

It does not matter how attentive
they were, the mothers,

or how much they forgot.
What matters, especially after,

is that they made us, planted us,
gave us much of what we needed

and some of what we didn’t
to help us grow and thrive,

whether or not we shared
the same bloodline.

I do not know how we stay bound
at the heart by invisible threads

that stitch us together.
Only that, thank God, we do.