Sunday dinner

a ritual that started once long ago
i remember now that we would cook together
the young handsome lad, my son; we'd get
a cookbook and slice onions, dice garlic,
smells would fill the kitchen and then we
would dine together, he and me,
mother and son.
it was lovely while it lasted
and lovelier as it evolved as others
joined us, the friendly one with the gap
in his teeth, the widest open smile,
then the adorable little runner girl,
her beautiful blue eyes and generous
laughter, but somehow
it was only me who kept cooking
Sunday dinner, now five mouths waiting
eagerly to be fed like the birds chirping
on the branches outside the
kitchen window.