Sweet Mischief

Growing up is being given things–
Memories, most typically recounted by your mother as she finishes cooking dinner

About how much you loved playing on the roadside,
blackened-by-exhaust piles of snow when you were four

          I thought you’d knock your baby teeth out. You never could stay still.

These memories are almost always said slowly. Laden with thought and caution, and care

Unfolded with a gentle hand.
Her back is turned to you, who quietly sits, waiting at the table for dinner and to feel whole.

She adds the last handful of sumac to the cast iron pan, and her voice becomes obscured by the vent
That fills the house with the heavy, unmistakable aroma.

Mujadara, now steaming from under its lid 

Sometimes you don’t know what to say
When you hear these stories,
Years of your life you hardly know

And you have no such stories to tell. 

But you think you’ve started to understand how your mother loves you:
Reciting you the way she remembers.

You, still made up of sweet mischief – try and listen.