Steam from the Cracked Bowl

The kitchen smelled like boiling things,

steam curled soft from chipped ceramic,

and my mother’s hands moved in slow circles,

stirring memories into the pot.

Salt and something green — not quite herbs —

the smell was heavy, the taste like home,

a place where silence filled the spaces

between chopping, frying, and the clock’s tick.

I tasted her in that kitchen air,

a flavor folded in sweat and patience,

something like forgiveness,

like waiting for the phone to ring,

and not caring if it did.