I always wanted to ask him, now that I am grown,
How he cooked that chicken. He only made it once,
And it was, to this day, the best thing I ever tasted.
Mom said Daddy always had an aptitude for cooking.
Mom had dropped me and Kyla off at Daddy’s
House just like every Sunday afternoon, and we spent
Hours in the small bedroom he rented singing while he
Played guitar and attempted to teach us simple chords.
Afterwards, we cooked dinner downstairs. He took a chicken
Out of the freezer and tossed on salt, pepper, and other
Seasonings I will never remember. He stuck it in the oven
For an unknown amount of time at an unknown temperature.
The three of us tore into the chicken along with some purple
Mashed potatoes he whipped up, sitting in front of the large TV.
The spices danced across my tongue as I bit into the perfectly
Crunchy skin, the crackle of my chewing noticeably loud.
The memory ends and I am standing at the podium next to Kyla who
Had proudly read my eulogy announcing, “And one time we made
A chicken”. She did not do the memory justice and I was furious
So, I frowned at the urn next to me and waited to take my seat.
I stare at the urn now remembering these times when I was a child.
I am longer bothered by, “And one time we made a chicken”, but the
Question of how Daddy cooked the chicken still weighs on my mind.
What seasonings did he use? How long did it cook? At what temperature?
After all these years I am only bothered by one thing. When Daddy
Handed me a plate with one perfectly crafted piece of chicken
That I would never forget eating, I never said, “Thank you”.
I cannot believe I never said, “Thank you”.