I haven’t visited Lexington Cemetery since my folks died,
a couple of months separating their deaths,
but this morning, as I prepared a rhubarb tart

from a cookbook in translation, Tante Heidi’s Swiss Kitchen,
I noticed Pop’s handwriting in German in the left margin
and Mom’s annotation in Italian on the right.

When I was little, the biggest argument I remember
was about discussing the meal too much at the table.
Would Mom be surprised at how we suppress our impatience

when our daughter walks us through details of a dish
she’s prepared? Or would she be annoyed
that we do for our children what we were unwilling to do for her?