The Wall

The kids were asking about one of her recipes tonight. They said it like it was simple. Like, “Can you make mom’s version?” And I said yes because what the hell else am I supposed to say? But what they don’t see is that every recipe of hers comes with collateral damage. The ingredients, the smell, the pan she used, the way she moved around the kitchen without trying. It’s all still in the room if I let myself notice it. So I make the thing. I measure. I stir. I smile enough to keep the mood from collapsing. And the whole time I’m thinking: this is the best I can do now. Approximate her. That’s what parenting after loss feels like half the time. Recreating warmth with missing tools. Trying to keep traditions alive when the person who gave them life is gone. The kids just want banana bread or pumpkin seeds or whatever memory tastes like. I want the woman who made it.