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164

The First One Through the Door

Imre Horvath

Villanelle · Memory · War

He was the first one through my classroom door.Hand already up before I'd asked them why.I taught him everything. I should have taught him more.

He wrote the kind of essays I still storeand never told him, though I meant to try.He was the first one through my classroom door.

He left that June and didn't say before,a note the whole class passed, not knowing why.I taught him everything. I should have taught him more.

Now every soldier walking past the storecould be him, home, alive. I can't say why.He was the first one through my classroom door.

They say the letters never mention war,a joke that, even now, I can't deny.I taught him everything. I should have taught him more.

Some nights I grade the papers like before,and half expect his hand to catch my eye.He was the first one through my classroom door.I taught him everything. I should have taught him more.

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Up nextMy Mother's Recipe for Caldo de PolloMy mother's recipe has no measurements, only gestures: a palm of salt, a handful meaning however much your hand happens to hold that day, which is not a stable unit of measurement, which is the entire problem with trying to write any of this down. I have tried for years to translate her kitchen into something a stranger could follow, and every time I fail at the exact same place: the moment she tastes the broth and adjusts it by something other than taste, some private arithmetic involving who is coming to dinner, what kind of day everyone has had, whether anyone needs forgiving. You cannot measure that. I have her handwriting on an index card that says simply "hasta que esté bueno," until it's good, and I used to think that was her being imprecise, and now, older, standing in my own kitchen guessing, I understand it was the only honest instruction she ever could have given me.