The scent of cooking awakens my senses, waters in my mouth,
Calloused fingers, slender and skilled, chop, chop, chop the onions,
Which summon a tear with their stinging aroma, clouding my vision,
Oregano present in the swirling fragrance that grips the kitchen,
And the sauce bubbles and spits as it simmers and sits on the stove to her left,
The pasta boiling to her right, the pot capped with a lid fogged with vapor,
Beads of water glistening as they cling to the glass top of the iron pot,
I watch as she dips a wooden spoon into the spitting sauce, as she brings it to her mouth,
The taste carries her back to the sound of laughter, to a large, smiling woman,
Who chop, chop, chopped the onions with her calloused, skillful fingers,
And a little girl watched with gleaming eyes as she tipped the onions into the pot of sauce,
The recipe identical to what she used now, in the very same kitchen,
Where a mother stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon,
Forever hidden in the shadows, gone away but not forgotten,
Alive in the sauce which her daughter stirs so carefully,
And she takes my tiny hand and we grip the wooden spoon,
The fingers of three generations resting on each other,
All together as we stir the bubbling melting pot of memories over the heated stove.