Re-reading a lovely book that I did not remember at all

I know that I read this before so 

I picked it up and turned to the last story in the book

In fact, I often start at the last paragraph if I'm feeling tentative. 

The Most Beautiful Book is made of cigarette papers glued together,

A collection of recipes shared by Soviet prison camp women with their children

Who anxiously await the return of their mothers, never knowing if they

Will be reunited, and I wondered how I would want to be remembered,

Whether it would be the crepes, the ones my own mother made for me,

The ones that were cut into strips for inclusion in the next days soup.

Or the brownies that my mother and I had made, the ones that

My daughter and I made, each generation having learned to

Cut many tiny slices which added up to them being

Consumed at a breathtaking pace.

I don't know why I picked up this book, having no recollection,

One of those brilliant moments that come upon us,

Like the sun rising over the horizon.