In my dad’s mother’s kitchen,
The air is thick with warmth,
garlic whispers from the oven,
a symphony of golden bread,
crusty and soft,
buttery fingers wrapped around,
each bite a hug,
a memory soaked in olive oil.
Spaghetti sways like ribbons,
glistening in marinara sauce,
meatballs roll like soccer balls roll on a light green soccer field.
During the entire meal,
the laughter of my grandmother, my parents, my older sister, and I dances alongside the clinks of our forks.
And we all have chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven,
the chocolate chips melt like secrets,
sweet endings to a meal crafted with love,
each crumb a piece of home.
