Callaloo

Julia, my lover, keeps secrets. She talks in her sleep, recites childhood songs, and whispers common Trinidadian phrases. I watch her, wishing I'd known her twenty years ago. When morning comes, I ask Julia to share her dreams but she hoards them like ancient treasures.

Julia, my lover, goes through more phases than the moon. I attribute this to her natal chart: she was born under the sign of Cancer. (It offers some solace but not enough). This morning I am nervous because Thanksgiving is approaching which means Julia will enter her darkest phase.

Julia, my lover, misses her family. And although I know she loves me she does not feel a sense of home with me. I woke up this morning praying that tomorrow will not be like the last three Thanksgivings. Every Thanksgiving Eve Julia and I have a huge blow-out. Our fight results in my eating Thanksgiving dinner with the half of our friends who take pity on me while she stays at home alone, talking on the phone at various intervals with the other half of our community.

In couples' counseling we have begun to touch on issues surrounding Julia's fear of intimacy and my fear of abandonment. Recently, she admitted that holidays evoke deep feelings of longing for her family and home. When I think about her past I under-stand why the holidays are so difficult for her and I wish I could fill the void her family has given her.

After revealing her lesbianism, Julia was asked to leave the family house. She went away at the end of the summer as planned and decided after some time that she'd write her family a letter. She wrote over thirty letters her first semester in college—even tried addressing them to different members—her mother, father, her younger sisters—with the hope that somebody would read her news and answer her. The letters were always returned unopened. She also phoned but as soon as her voice was deciphered she heard a dial tone. The loudness of the dial tone seemed to magnify each time she called. The last time she called it was deafening. She decided she would make no more attempts.

Julia has not recovered from the cruelty of her family's rejection. Though I feel for her, I am selfish. I know I cannot bear another fight this holiday. I need connected-ness with her.

I watch Julia as she rises from our bed. She walks over to the window and pulls the string that opens the blinds. The light gray sky illuminates the outdoor stillness—a typical New England morning this time of year. I want to go to the market and buy ingredients for tomorrow's feast. I take a deep breath before speaking.

"Julia, will you come to the market with me?"

"We don't need anything from the market," she snaps back.

"Of course we do baby. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving."

"Well, I'm not really into turkey, Linda. You know that." The sharpness of her words slices the air in our bedroom.

I take another deep breath and try a different approach.

"What dishes did you eat at home on holidays? I mean, I know you didn't celebrate Thanksgiving in Trinidad but what would you typically eat for special occasions?"

Julia scrunches her nose and lips together, forming her pouty 'I'm thinking' expression. She comes back to the bed and collapses on it. Pulling the magenta down comforter over her head she says softly, "I miss callaloo." Surprised by her admission,

I reach under the comforter and take her in my arms before asking, "What is callaloo?"

"Callaloo develops from a West African idea of stewing greens down to smooth puree," she begins.

Having been raised by my grandmother, a southern woman who loved vegetables I am familiar with all types of greens—mustards, collards, kale, turnips and Swiss chard. I smile remembering how I loved eating my grandmother's greens. And, the smile lingers at the realization that Julia and I share this in common.

"Callaloo is the leaf of a taro plant...