Mother's Cooking

That smell, the pasta, like coming back home,

a dance on the stove where love used to roam.

Sauce simmered softly, her apron a ghost,

remnants on plates are the things I miss most.

Each forkful a memory, rich as it clings,

the taste of her care, like a song that still sings.

In those small bites, I would once find my peace,

but all that is left is a longing that won't cease.