More Than Words

Mom’s on the phone, speaking Ukrainian long distance to Baba, but Mom’s lived in English for way too long and her tongue has turned. She says, wisnyite – do you understand – over and over, to my grandmother. Mom sees me, notices I’ve tracked mud into the kitchen, scowls, points to the broom closet, says, chort – demon – into the phone, along with my name. I only see Baba once a year and we don’t know each others’ language, but her mouth curves like a soft pyrohy dumpling when she sees me. Or when she shows me how to pull beets in the garden or drops a dollop of sour cream into my bowl of borsht or tucks a homemade quilt around me at bedtime no matter the wood stove’s heat. Gazing at me with those soft watery brown eyes, saying, dobre, dobre – good, good.