Samara’s Tea Party

I must invoke Houdini to contort myself
into the threshold of the playhouse —
the one the second child of my second child
invited me through for her tea party —
and the second child still inside me is glad
i am finally just the right size

The other actual people in her present scope
having begged off her personally delivered invitation —
she turns intently toward the wall
and through improvisation she assimilates refusal —
presses some knotholes to phone
trumped up possible late arrivals —
endures contrived dramatic excuses for delay
simultaneously sweeps the floor with a hemlock branch
the ubiquitous baby-doll Lula
wedged maternally in the crook of her armpit

Then — unabashed — she intently arranges
and rearranges clattering permutations
of four metal teacups and saucers
four metal dessert plates and one metal teapot
on the matching metal tray
to attempt an aesthetic symmetry
but — not satisfied with the results —
she lines up each teacup and saucer
on the precarious windowsill —
requests that I hold out my forearms “like this”
onto which she balances the plates —
two on the palm-side of each

With hostess aplomb nonpareil
into the tea strainer she snips
one blade of grass one fragment of leaf mold
and a pinch of garden mulch —
steeps for an over-attentive ten seconds —
the flourished faux pour of liquid from the pot
almost managed with panache
until the lid clatters to the floor

“Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up later.”
she waves a lighthearted backhanded dismissal
evoking some essence of her mother’s nonchalance
“I am making you hot tea, and it is hot so be careful!
Are you vegan?  I made you vegan cookies from a recipe”

Only when I noisily sip and declare the tea delicious —
a deft illusion with four plates full of fictional vegan treats
still teetering on my forearms
she settles beside me bending over the tray to confide:
“I made this tea party just for us Grammy”

The privilege of exclusivity  —
a longing familiar to a second child
now sweetens the table —
the real imaginary dessert

“And I am glad to have it just with you Samara.”
As her name implies she is both seed and wing
and in her tiny playhouse
just between us
something deeply rooted soars