August 23, 2022

on a Zoom call with my mother

I imagine what she’s making for dinner—an impromptu curry from the abundance
of squash and carrots in the fridge, or—due to the rain—a chicken pot pie
whose crust she will recreate out of leftover tortilla chips, pulverized in a Cuisinart
with an assemblage of flavored crackers. As we swap news about our week, I picture
the tiny ceramic vessel where a half stick of butter has been softening all morning,
and somewhere at the perimeter, a basket shouldering a rusk of bread and two avocados.
On the windowsill, I suspect a juice glass is blooming with a few sprigs of rosemary, 
and to its right, a small vase of chives from the garden. After all these years, I have
memorized the wave of my mother’s hair, the lines of her knuckles, her grey-green eyes,
but most of all, the exuberant splay of her kitchen in the final weeks of summer.