The Table isn't quite clean

Neither are my hands

 

I could have been

Like my mother

clean. tidy. organized

instead I lose my recipe.

decide to make do with

the things I

Find on the shelf.

 

The shelf that contains memories of my girlhood

The spices of many choices

that could have been better made

another way

 

I shrug my shoulders and tug on my imperfect apron,

protecting myself from the drips that fall,

sumptuously,

out of the bowl and into my open lap.

 

 

R.P.