listen to this poem here:
I made her favourite dinner.
Onions simmered to vanishing
meatballs just the right size
absolutely no mushrooms of any kind
no wholegrain healthy pasta
everything the way she likes it.
Then I watched her poke at the sauce and say
not what she wanted
not hungry anyway.
And I thought
you will make something for someone.
It will not showcase the breadth of your skill.
It will not win any awards.
In days or hours it will likely be forgotten, but
you’ll put heart into every tiny part, regardless.
And when they push it away you’ll tell yourself
it does not matter
not that important
Some lessons can’t be taught.
Some flavours must be tasted
bitterness in each regretful bite.
I love her, so I let her walk
from plate untouched and love unspoken
and I spared her the knowledge
that one day
it will be her turn.