My Mother's Kitchen

It always begins with boiling water.
Add a little margarine, three quarters cup of mother’s milk,
and a dash of Sundays-after-church.
Mix together children playing football
in the back yard in a large bowl,
add in the men sitting on the back porch
slowly.
“Don’t forget the rosemary!”
little Rosemary always says.
Poppa always makes sure to toss in his
Louis-Armstrong from his jar of
sun-dried-music-records
(when he’s upset he always orders a side of
Beethoven).
Every time he tries to pick out the Gramma-singing-along
but mom always smiles at him and said it tastes
better that way.

When the foamy white cream began to bubble,
then momma hands me the spoon--
I get to stir, it’s my favorite.
Watching everything blend together
into a sea of white with tiny flecks
like little singing green fish.
I stirred until our family couldn’t get any closer,
then Mother would pour us over fleshy yellow noodles
and we would eat in silent reveries on the warm sunny table.

Poppa’s died, and Miss Rose-Marie
has moved to California.
My sauce isn’t as creamy as Mother’s was,
it normally comes out kind of gray.
I try to make it likes she does,
but it just doesn’t taste the same.