Tins of olive oil
from the land of your birth
crowd your cabinets, the perfect
blocks for small hands to play with.
The sound of oil popping as it
enfolds bell peppers frying in the
cast iron skillet, creating the forever smell
of your house.
Crocheted covers embrace tables and beds,
gifts of elegance created by your hands large
and worn from the working, making, and giving
of your many years.
The noodles only you could make, kneading the
secrets held in your heart, pressing them each
Sunday, sprinkled delicately with flour and love.
I see them draped over the backs of the dining room
chairs waiting to dry.