An Image in Four Parts

She said to pay attention to the turkey soup —

the way it tastes

the saltiness, the soupiness, the sturdiness. She said nothing else mattered, just taste,

but instead I keep thinking about the lessons of her kitchen,

the time I was with the women in my family — recipes and stories, apprenticeship and generosity, attention and testament

how the meat and vegetables and spices stretched out like a road map to somewhere magical as we gathered and boiled and simmered

Again, she reminded us to put it all aside (the I am not yet) and focus on the turkey soup —

to stay with it, trust it, become it —

but the minute I try, I smell tomorrow and yesterday,

see death and childhood,

hear doubt and faith,

and here I am a grown up with all my sense-making muscles, mainly, in tact,

watching the world as something I can’t explain.

Someone else, maybe even you, might say … Isn’t this cheating? Aren’t you supposed to stick to turkey soup? It’s just turkey soup.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a hypocrite.

After all, I once promised I would plant irises, 

swore I’d remember birthdays —

and then the kaleidoscope broke into a million tiny mirrors.

So yes — the turkey soup.

I see it now: savor.

Even still, as I watch, it becomes comfort, which

becomes gratitude and delight,

We share turkey soup: from heart, recipe, hands, kitchen, large pots, small containers, steps to other hands. I remember it all.

Thank you for reading my Writing in the Dark Infinite Small micro prose exercise. Please share your thoughts about images that conjure attention, memory, and drift. Subscribe to the Wide-Awakeness Project for more exploration and connection.