She Taught Me This and Now I'm Passing It Off as Mine

I brought the dish my mother made—

caramelized onions, the particular cheese,

a layering technique she never wrote down

but I watched enough times

that my hands knew it.

First time I'd made it since.

Someone lifted the foil from the corner

and the steam came up

and they said who made this

and I said I did

and they said it's really good

and I said thank you

and went to get a drink.

I stood by the drinks table longer than normal.

Trying to figure out what I'd done—

taken credit for something that wasn't mine,

or given her the room

to be in a dish at a party

she would have liked.

Both, maybe.

She would have said both, probably,

and then told me to stop standing

by the drinks table

looking like I owed somebody.

The casserole dish is in the car now.

One corner gone.

The foil folded back.

I'll wash it when I get home.