On Having a Husband That Cooks

I watched my grandmother cook
For years.
It was her nightly burden for
Being born a woman.
Having a husband was expected.
Having children was expected.
There was no choice.
There was no alternative.

Night after night, she met ingratitude,
Sometimes hostility.
“The corn is overcooked.”
“The roast is dry.”

Now it’s my mother’s turn.
I look her in the eyes when I say “Thank you”,
To let her know that I know
Feeding me is not the sum total
Of her life’s ambition.
She doesn’t understand.
She thinks this is just
The way it’s done.

Tonight I’m writing
While my husband makes
His famous homemade pizza.
He worked all day, I did not.
But he knows that perhaps
I had other things to do tonight.
He does it because he loves me
And he’s craving pizza.

And I realize how lucky I am.
I realize how loved I am.
I had a choice.
I had an alternative.