Heavy Pot, Empty Table

Another plastic container, cold, bland.

My mouth chews, but nothing registers.

Chicken soup I tried to make myself,

just broth and some sad, pale squares

of carrot. It tasted like hot water,

a weak apology for hunger.

My mother’s kitchen, always warm.

Garlic scent rising, thick, to the ceiling.

Thyme from a tiny, clay pot on the sill.

Her green cast-iron pot, heavy as a secret,

bubbling with stew all afternoon.

The steam would fog the windows,

a comfort. You could taste the hours

simmered into it, the quiet hum

of her humming while she stirred.

Not just salt or spice, but something

else, something that settled deep

in your bones.

Tonight, just me and this flat taste.

That heavy pot, probably still in her cupboard,

waiting. Like a promise I forgot how to keep.