Becoming My Mother

Every sunday,
I put on an apron and become my mother.
I tiptoe through the living room,
Flip on the light switch,
And skim over the ingredients for lunch,
Contemplating the appetites to serve.

Every Sunday,
I put on an apron and become my mother.
Running water through strands of green,
Slicing and chopping each and every minute away,
Stirring and tasting every second at the tip of her finger,
Eyes lighten up as the extra pinch of salt is dropped.

Every Sunday,
I put on a apron and become my mother.
A glass of red wine with a good movie she wonders,
How'd it feel like to just lounge on the couch, 
Away from the stove and the hot oven,
With the air condition blowing cool air straight at her face.

Every Sunday, 
I put on an apron and become my mother.
The peaceful sound of the ticking clock that she misses,
The lingering smoke from the cigarette that burns itself to ash,
The absence of the occasional resentment of returning loved ones,
The simple joy making plans for no one but herself.

Every Sunday,
I put on an apron and think of my mother.
The burden, the responsibility, the suffocation,
Her eyes, her words, her steamed eggs with soy sauce,
Her time, her wrinkles, her roast chicken recipe,
All that she is, all that defines her,
And I know that I'll never live up to her.
I'll never be my mother
Everything that she was and is.