the recipe I watched you make

time and time again

hits a little harder now

when placed beneath my hands

for no matter how hard I try

to replicate the exactness

of each ingredient,

they are never quite the same

perhaps it was not the recipe

at all—but the way you held the spoon,

the sound of music as you stirred,

light that filled the room

all the more reason I must pass it on,

not the tangible cookies

but memories from mother to daughter,

time spent, hips touching

heat rising from the stove