It is your dead mother’s birthday today,
And so I am making her famous casserole—
The one with 8,000 calories.
The one that tastes like home.
She has not been gone long,
And still you crave her comfort.
You shrugged when I asked what you wanted for dinner,
But I knew the answer.
As I wash the dishes,
I cut my hand on the metal of an empty can. Bleeding into the sink,
All I can think of is how lucky I am—How lucky we are—
Just to be alive.
