A poem for my mother
Image credit: Pixabay
Salt tang of dough
on my tongue,
wooden clank and
thud of cherry rolling pin,
hiss of flour on board
as pastry slides —
roll, roll, turn,
roll, roll, turn.
The scent of peeled
apples and cinnamon,
window frosted with steam.
Reflected in glass
I see my mother,
rolling dough,
sprinkling flour,
sharing secrets.
The chemistry behind
perfect pastry,
she said,
could also apply
to life —
don’t over-mix,
handle gently,
avoid stretching
too thin —
start out hot and fast,
then slow the oven down.
I lower my head,
swallow a lump,
fold the disk of dough
over the pin and
lift across a Pyrex plate —
a wedding gift,
chipped and stained from
sixty years and
two generations
of pies —
the only piece of her
I have.