It’s seldom you’re away these days – your mind
weighed down with books of theory, sundry
scholarly pursuits. The house is closed
together in your absence – late summer
afternoons have always put me in a mood.
I find the frying pan, a knife, our last
two yellow onions. Soon the kitchen comes
alive – the sound and smell so long familiar:
weekday mornings, and my father home
from night-shift at the plant. I’d rise for school
still half-asleep – a greasy sweetness
in the air. As if the ritual of making kept
him safe, and in providing there was space
enough for love. The other lessons I forget.