It's too warm and you’re bustling around the kitchen,

Plastic hair clip perched on top of your brown curls like a crown.

The familiar voice of Kenny Rogers plays in the background

And your mouth moves to sing like muscle memory.

The same muscles that know how to dodge the dog around your feet,

And find a home for every dish in the cluttered cabinets.

Just as you find a home for every person under the roof.

I’ve watched you command the kitchen in a warm glow like an autumnal witch,

Dishing out comfort and love and accomplishing impossible feats-

Like when Dad was gone for Thanksgiving and you had to cook everything,

Or when Sam dragged in three more little boys to feed dinner,

Or when you welcomed my uncle in after all he’d done.

You claim I don’t have your eyes-

Mine aren’t as dark as yours-

But I hope I can look at people with the same acceptance you do.

So as my cheeks grow flushed,

And you stoke the hearth and cook up a comfort only a mother can,

I’ll watch in adoration and pray you pass down the recipe to me.