He wondered if she loved him.
Really.
She was so distant. Perpetually
preoccupied.
He drifted away.
She stayed as she was. Mum. And
spare.
But in times when the
silence crashes down on her.
She would strain …
“I love you like I love my garlics,
my onions, my tomatoes, my
herbs, and spices. I love you like I
love the rough yet giving iron
skillet. I love you like I love my
gleaming copper pans. . .”
Ensconced by her stove and oven.
The kitchen she loved so much, now her own jail. And she her
own jailer.
Hoping the scent of her cooking
would call him back …
To dine.
To feast once again.
No comments:
Post a Comment