Threads of memory

If I close my eyes and invite my past into my present, I see a picture of myself sitting on the kitchen floor as a little girl while I watched my mom cook.

Slowly, each detail comes into view.  The soothing, methodical rhythm of chopping that matched my heartbeat.  The drips of oil and flour on the floor that I would touch and smear in circles with my fingertips. The loud sizzling oil that drowned out her gentle humming.  Her hands that moved deftly, tending to the pots and pans.  Stirring, tossing and flipping.  Strong and pungent smell of spices wafted in and out but mouthwatering all the same.

Each detail is like a well-worn thread that I slowly weave together. Unsure if each thread would hold up, unsure if it is even the right color.  Did I color each thread differently over time?  Will I weave them differently next time? What would I find at the end when I am done weaving?  The Kitchen?  The Food? My mom? Comfort?

What or who comes to you when you reunite with your past?

 

*Featured image by Fancycrave from Pexels at https://www.pexels.com/photo/blue-blur-close-up-craft-340012/

  

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