Sopa de Fideo

Sopa de Fideo:

for Mom

I watch the garlic sizzle

and spices bloom

in the pan you taught me to hold,

its scent unfolding like memory

onion, cumin, the crushed all spice

In the seasoned molcajete.

wooden spoon tapping rhythm

into each simmering swirl.

You recount days you sang with your dad

I never learned the words to your songs,

but the stories retain warmth.

Now, alone in my own kitchen,

I follow your recipe

like a prayer I once forgot

the broth, the tomato,

the softening ache of fideo.

Forgive me, Mom.

For the hunger I carried

like a badge of endurance

the skipped meals, the silence,

the way my self-denial

curled under your ribs

without you knowing why.

Forgive the weight

of your hopes

that I wore like armor

too big,

too beautiful,

too sacred

to fit the boy I believed myself to be.

I’m sorry for every time

I forgot to be kind

to you,

to me.

For the moments I met your care

with distance,

your worry with stone.

But I am learning.

To salt without bitterness,

to stir without fear.

To love you not from guilt

but from gratitude.

Every time the kitchen fills

with those familiar scents

Chicken bouillon with

whispers of cilantro,

steam kissing my cheeks

I feel your presence.

Even when I fall short,

I carry you in the meal,

in the making.

I love you, Mom.

In the way the soup always returns

to a slow, forgiving simmer.

In the way you never asked me

to be more than your son

only to come home

now and then,

to let you feed me.