Cheesy Pasta Saturdays

In the quiet kitchen, shadows stretch across the dull wooden floors.

Mom's old apron hung limp, its strings weak from countless ties.

Her hands, once strong and steady, now tired, as she measured the flour and eggs.

The scent of garlic clung to the air, the sauce simmered, thickening like freezing tears.

How I watched her, frail and fading.

The pasta boiled, its spirals came alive like our shared stories, each noodle a sad confession, a plea for more time with my best friend.

And the cheese, oh, the cheese! It happily clung to the spoon. So stubborn like me, reluctant to let go.

She'd plate it up, her smile so loving, her touch, a fleeting warmth against my palm.

We sat at the table, two souls bound by time and truth; Cheesy Pasta Saturdays.

I adored our moments together but oh how time is so cruel.

To steal her away, leaving behind an empty chair, a void that seemed like unknown dark waters.

And now, as I stir the pot, the steam blurs my vision.

I taste salty tears on my lips, from intruding sorrows; Cheesy Pasta Saturdays.

I'll always remember the way her laughter danced, the way her eyes slanted, the snorts of joy.

I'll cook her recipe every Saturday, I promised, even though my heart aches with each measure.

I'll even keep imagining her beside me, whispering, "I made you a treat."

So here's to cheesy pasta, to Mom's fading legacy, to the taste of her love, the pain from her absence.

May Saturdays forever carry the weight of our shared space, as I twirl my fork, seeking comfort in the familiar swirls.