The sunflowers wave
as I step outside to cut parsley
for the small red potatoes I've
steamed for supper.
When I miss my family, I
cook their food.
I mince onions and saute garlic
in olive oil, add basil and tomatoes
and simmer my
grandmother's spaghetti sauce.
I bake the pineapple cookies my
Irish grandmother made
when she traveled by train
to visit, sleeping on
the pull out bed in my room.
Tonight I'm making my mother's
parsley potatoes. As I
chop parsley leaves into ribbons,
I tell them: you're going into
my favorite potatoes, and
I'll drench you in butter and salt.
You'll feed my son who says
he's never full after he returns
from soccer practice. The cat
may creep on the counter
and steal a bite.
I'll savor you, and
feel my mother with me.
I miss my mother.
I hope not to miss the wonder
of you – of salted potatoes in butter,
basil in olive oil, pasta soaked
in a silky sauce.
It's so easy to forget the wonder
of being alive.
With each meal, it
is simple
to
remember.
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