Mother's Stew Memory

Burnt edges crackle with sweetness,

a stew thick with tangled flavors.

A spoonful holds arguments

half-spoken across the table,

love simmered low beneath heat.

Steam rises like secrets told

in low voices,

her hands rough from years

knowing how to hold both knife and heart.

Each bite bitter and soft,

a memory folding inside me,

never just food, but something more.

That kitchen smelled of waiting,

and the weight of things unsaid.