for my mother, who so joyfully shared her kitchen with me

My mother’s been waiting for me
to open the narrow drawer beside the stove
where, smiling with anticipation,
I reach for the dingy-pink-metal measuring spoons
that once were hers.
They clatter and clink,
till firmly cradled in my hands,
they radiate a warmth
that rushes through me.
As the passage of time disappears,
she and I silently begin to converse
and proceed with preparations
for a meal she’ll never share.
She’d like me to use her crusty-black cast iron pan,
but I’m saving its heft
for the day those tiny spoons
will no longer be enough
to stir her up
.

This poem first appeared on EveryWritersResource.com.
Used here with permission.