Mum is a memory in the kitchen: A poem 

A wind of pleasantness wafts in my kitchen 

As spices are my vices and my weapons 

Donning an apron is like the shade of trees 

Its leisureful refuge putting me at ease 

There is no curfew on desire in my choices 

I listen to my heart’s liberating voices 

With the knives and ladles like a jockey on a saddle 

Mastering the proportions, unravelling the riddles 

A little run in the kitchen is a treasure to find 

opening windows like music does a troubled mind 

And in mother’s recipes like a video in rewind 

The tastebuds craving for all that was left behind 

How those joyful moments of the past trapped 

like a relic on a newly discovered island mapped 

That tower of love so solid that it still stands 

Even though long gone are the endearing hands