I was seven when I burnt my mom’s favorite pot.
It created a cloud of smoke that ran through the house.
STOMP…STOMP, Her steps heavy and angry.
Then, she yelled at me.
Her raging voice sounded like a loud fire alarm.
Maybe it was just the fire alarm screaming at me.
And my mom comforting me.
But ever since then, I never liked cooking.
I remember running into the garden as fast as I could in the morning.
As my mom instructed to get her fresh and ripened tomatoes.
The tomatoes were red and small. I didn’t know how to pick them.
My grip was always too hard and I would crush the juice all over me.
The scent stained me and stayed.
I enjoyed standing on a small stool next to mom as she cooked.
I liked to hear the sizzling sounds the pan makes when it meets bacon.
Or when my mom mix the eggs with a fork and it would make a loud
Clink Clink
Whenever the fork and the bowl crashed into each other.
She always got mad at me because I was in the way.
Told me to leave the kitchen and I did.
I was always in the way, always. Always
I couldn’t do anything correctly as she wanted.
Or is it that I couldn’t do it as I wanted?
It must be just me, because they don’t get it.
They dance in the kitchen
They sing with the fire alarm
And they paint with the tomato juice.
As my mom watches.
While I stare.