I remember my grandmothers; the women I love.
My great aunts and uncles who now live above.
The auras they projected as they entered a room
That surrounded my senses of the foods we’d consume.
They came with dishes no recipe would contain.
For how can one measure spices of joy, love, and pain?
The ingredients were stories of our family lore;
Little children in kitchens sneaking tastes, evermore.

Each recipe passed down in the oral tradition;
They were not listed in any cookbook editions.
They would not write down the amounts and construction;
The process would be different with each new production.
Due to this, they forced us to listen and take note,
While they weaved in the history in stories they’d quote.
Ingredients were measured mostly by pinches, by hand;
And told to us in voices of their native lands.

Now that I’m the chef, and the one who’s in charge,
I want to be known as the “balabusta, at large”.
I’m grateful to family and the friends who can tell
The recipes and memories they still taste and smell.
And when I recreate them, this time around,
I’ll be sure I’ll take time to write them all down.
I’ll cook with my daughter and make it my mission,
To pass down the stories in the oral tradition.
I just hope that this generation will continue to be,
The “bubales” who impart the flavor of memory.

I’ve never been able to create with thread.
No knitting or sewing; my strength is with lead.
I draw faces with pencils; in this I conceive…
But my hat’s off to those whose art is to weave.
This being said, my faith has devised
A tapestry universe; fully realized.
Our life’s experiences are woven in whole,
They make something precious- our beloved souls.
When we add to the tapestry, the strongest of line-
We give back to G-d and the universe- divine.
Taking care of the souls of the Earth strengthens threads.
Anger, negating, and hating make shreds.
If you weave, you see the need for each part.
Both long and short threads have a say in the art.
All souls are crucial in the loom of creation.
Each one of us counts; filling G-d with elation.
When life ends, there is joy at the sight of your soul.
You’re one with the tapestry of Heaven, and whole.

My world consists of a number of Spectrums;
Colors and ribbons and puzzle pieces entwined.
I accept their uniqueness when they’re all tossed together.
I accept that they cannot and will not combine.

I am asked how I cope with all 3 separate Spectrums;
How I don’t feel the need to find someone to blame.
I am asked why I haven’t exchanged all my pieces,
To find that one puzzle where all is the same.

It seems you assume that my Spectrums have choices.
I say my rainbow’s beautiful as she arcs in the sky.
I’m in pain, however, watching her tears as she’s hurting.
But her rainbow shines forth in the sun, as she cries.

My young Spectrum’s made of 2 beautiful colors;
Green for his fractured mind, blue ASD for his soul.
When blended his colors resemble the ocean;
Where he can find peace and be momentarily whole.

I am asked how I still love all of my Spectrums;
Why haven’t I tried to change who they are.
It’s because I was chosen to cherish their colors,
And I am honored to help them soar to the stars.

I say to you all that we’re given a blessing;
The gift to be chosen to love special hearts.
I love all my Spectrums for the glory they show me.
And I will love them forever, as a puzzle apart.