Mum, your delicious homemade meals were

more than just food, but were love letters

written to us with warmth, care, and devotion

you cooked not to impress, but to nurture

you were a culinary alchemist, turning simple

ingredients into edible poetry, and yours was

one of the most beautiful, sublime masterpieces

Your kitchen was an oasis where worries dissolved

replaced by the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil

or the rhythmic chop of vegetables, when you

suddenly departed, you took your recipes with you

because no amount of instructions could replicate

the way you knew what made us feel better

the way you always made home feel like home

The hardest part is knowing I will never taste

your food again, never again will I hear you

call me to the table, never again will I watch

your hands expertly prepare my favourite dish

but more than anything, I miss sitting at the table

watching you work, knowing that everything

you cooked came from a place of pure love

I try to recreate your dishes, but something

is always missing, because the secret ingredient

was always you, because your love was a feast

though the kitchen now feels empty without

the familiar aroma of your spices filling the air

I am still nourished by the memories you left behind

I miss your food, the taste of home, the taste of you