From Memory

I was sick, so I made soup —

just to give the afternoon something to do.

Onion, thyme, the stock I found

behind everything else. I knew

the steps before I thought of them —

the wooden spoon dragging the floor

of the pot, that slow resistance,

the steam rising. The smell before

the thought: thyme and onion,

the specific kind of heat

my mother made when I was sick.

I hadn't planned to repeat

any of that. The spoon kept moving.

The proportions were all hers —

not written down, not consulted,

just somewhere in the years

that get into the hands.

I stood there for a while

not quite moving, the soup coming

into its own, that particular style

of hers I hadn't needed

until now, apparently.

I ate it from the pot, standing.

It tasted like her. Like me.