Her cooking’s ghost on the stove

I pass the empty kitchen,

scentless now but still full.

Stew memories cling to the rust-stained pot,

the ghost of her spoon stirring slow,

thick sauce swirling, heat pressing the air.

Her cooking was the pause between chaos,

a burnt edge, a sharp spice,

a place where silence tasted like warmth.

Now the tap runs cold,

but the smell lingers,

a memory sharper than water,

a flavor no one else remembers.