It’s the Truth
by Samin Nosrat

People never believe me

when I tell them that my family

does things just a little bit

differently.  Backwards, even.

They say that each

family has its idiosyncrasies,

its own special way of doing things.

But do other people’s dads

rush out in only their polka-dot boxer shorts

to pick up the Times from their doorsteps

just after midnight so they can read the obituaries

to their kids as bedtime stories?

Do other people’s families always eat breakfast for

dinner, and then have the leftovers in the morning?

I tell people about the way

my parents, aunts, and visiting uncle

once marched blindly through the

rain, through puddles underfoot

and overhead to meet my sister—

they couldn’t, they wouldn’t let a little

rain keep them from her

on her birthday.  I tell people

how their only goal

was to wash her wet headstone

with tears and rosewater.

I tell people, but they never believe me