On a Sunday
I find myself at the stove
stirring a large pot,
chunks of meat and sauce
- a meal I won’t even eat.
So often a roast
with lots of accompaniments,
prepared with love
and lots of seasoning.
In my mind I can’t help but go to my mother
and especially, her mother before her.
I know that this is the maternal pattern
I am weaving.
Sometimes I am happy to,
other days in amidst the Yorkshire puddings
I want to run out the door
hail the first cab I see
and be gone
Perhaps I will spend my Sundays then
in a vast open expanse of scenery,
or doing yoga by a tranquil lake.
Perhaps someone else will cook my dinner
and I will have interesting conversations
about existential philosophers and the meaning of life,
all through the night.
The timer goes.
The meal is ready.
I return here to a room of smells and steam and smoke,
to a life of being stuck.
It is true
never left the kitchen.
Photo by José Ignacio Pompé on Unsplash