Mother's Broth

The yellowed card, my mother’s script,

ink faded but the words still clear.

Split pea soup, for a sick friend,

something warm to make them well, my dear.

Ham hock simmering, slow and low,

the kitchen thick with a salty steam.

Potatoes softened, carrots glow,

a quiet comfort, a childhood dream.

I stir the pot, the ladle’s scrape,

a rhythm old, a steady sound.

Hope it helps, hope they escape

this cough, this fever on the ground.

And I wonder if she knows, somehow,

that making this for someone else,

is making it for me right now.