There is a smell that returns me immediately—
her kitchen at the end of the day,
the spices and the warmth and the particular
music that her cooking used to play.

I can make the recipe exactly—
I have the card in her own hand—
but something in the making doesn't match it,
something that I cannot understand.

What she added that the recipe omits
is the thing that made it more than food—
it was the love that cooked alongside it,
the generous, irreplaceable motherhood.
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