Who Can Tell?

i’m in the kitchen with grandma
she is braiding the challah
i never stop chattering

there is so much to tell her —

about my teacher who wears
the same dress
every day
and always looks sad

and the boy in my class
who tattled on me
when i blew bubbles
with a straw
into my milk container

and the new girl in school named Rhonda

“grandma have you ever heard a name like that?
i don’t like that name
and I don’t like that girl”

“mamala,” grandma says
“don’t say you don’t like that girl
you don’t know her yet
who can tell?
you might end up being good friends”

“no we won’t
she’s very bossy
she told me I wasn’t coloring right
but i know how to color”

“yes darling
you color pretty”
grandma says
in her soft voice
that sounds like she’s singing

“maybe” grandma says
“maybe she just wanted
to talk to you
but she couldn’t think of something
nice to say
maybe she wants to be your friend”

“maybe
but i don’t think so”

“try to think so
it will make you happier if you
think so”

i didn’t know it then
60 years ago
on that Friday afternoon
in the kitchen on Elsemere Place

but my grandma Yetta
was my first
Buddhist teacher