In my dream, my name was Flori Terrence 
an amalgam of both of my grandmothers (Florence and Terry)  
both redheads, both writers 
the source of my hair and my gift 
I’m half of each of you 
the Great Depression runs through my veins 
a stockpile of canned goods- the cheapest brand- carefully monitored and restocked 
homemade pickles 
Velveeta, the generic off-brand of Wonder Bread, margarine 
Italian ice, the Japanese restaurant on 86^th Street 
a housewife in a stagnant marriage 
a freelance editor in Manhattan 
hair in curlers, the same style worn for decades, 
and lavender polyester pants that could only be called ‘slacks’ 
a loud voice and raucous laugh, 
a people person 
Easter baskets, Fourth of July cookouts and fireworks, Thanksgiving dinners, the unwrapping of Christmas presents 
MOMA, the Whitney, Central Park, the zoo, South Street Seaport, Canal Street, the ballet 
the candy drawer, playing Store, feeding ducks by the river,  
passing along women’s magazines  
the quizzes filled out 
How Satisfied Are You in Life? 
the score landing in the lowest category 
molding imaginative animals out of clay, working the New York Times crossword puzzle, throwing casual dinner parties, snapping photos, bringing back souvenirs from Puerto Rico, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland 
selecting one wing from a bucket of fried chicken 
hugging so hard that it hurt  
the end of every phone conversation a mantra 
“I don’t know anything. 
I never go anywhere 
or see anyone
or do anything.
I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”