It is the evening of my birthday
and I am looking through photos
of my mother standing so weakly
at the stove, determined
to make the food sheʻd always made
while I am visiting.
It is about five months
Before she will die
and that butter is simmering
but she canʻt stand up any longer.
I take over.
I brown the potato balls
and since I donʻt remember
anything else
I guess I did ok.
All those little things,
Isnʻt it amazing how they burn?
How at the time
they are small mice
grey everyday things
and only later
as you look back
do you see what they were:
The hot gold thread
that stitched it all together
the net that will catch you, later
when you reach out into the empty air.
