Everywhere I go

I prefer the taste of the preterit;

--the smell
of sugar melting
on top of oatmeal,

dissolving
at the bottom
of a steaming 
cup of lemon tea.

A 1980's
winter morning
watching Mama
stand over the stove
in her bathrobe,

Sunday
with the windows
frost-caked over
like a frozen desert.

She stood in silence,
stirring the farina for
her three squabbling boys,

she,
the strongest woman I knew,
there, in the kitchen,
here, everywhere I go.