By Stephanie Yen

                                                                              “flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms”
                                                                                                                           —Gwendolyn Brooks

You knead dough in the palms of your hands, feel the flutter 
in the pit of your stomach. Did Grandma do it this way or
that way? —you can never remember. In your head, you see her sing, 
her voice unfurling threads of silk across the kitchen floor, an-
cient and dusty. You see the bread in the oven dancing to her aria, 
the lump swelling like a hot balloon, up, up—never coming down.
Your mouth runs dry as the dough stales in your hands. These
days are stern reminders that Grandma’s voice will never again grace your rooms.