The drawers were stuffed, boxes,
envelopes, recipe books

old, and even older.
Across the pages were her notes,
scribbled in ink, pencil,
even a purple crayon.

Add a smidgen more cinnamon,
a pinch less salt,
extra flour always makes it nice,
use potato water for best results.

Our task, my ninety-three-year-old mother and I,
to renew favorites into a readable collection,
understandable, and ready to pass on

to the next generation.

Hours sharing, explaining,
trying to understand a list of ingredients

with no amounts or directions,
triggering laughter, tears or both.

Remembering when, and knowing
she will never cook again.