Mommy’s Cooking Soup

 

Better Than Bouillon boils in the pot, waiting

for Mommy to stir. She twists the spoon in her hand,

grazing scraped metal, watching for the water

to pop!, for the vegetables to rise and fall, waves

raging against the sea, reaching for the sky.

 

I don’t tell her I hate the sound of the spoon

crawling across the pot, metal on metal,

sloshing the contents until they gurgle.

I smile and nod, watch her stir, hover

over the heat like it’s her purpose in life.