Mom’s Kitchen

Mom is sick,

a sad thought, but

there is one benefit,

I can finally occupy the kitchen

the forbidden lands of war

where you come out with scars, but always 

a reward

 

I wear my mother's green apron

as if wearing armour in the battlefield.

I treat ingredients with passion,

sprinkle the seasoning carefully,

make sure to clean up.

 

With a little bit of confidence,

a trace of nervousness and panic,

I push the pizza 

into the oven 

hoping to surprise her

 

Floating aroma and

a good heart 

and dedication

All for my mom

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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