I open the door
It's been a long day
But a smell drifts down the stairs
That reminds me
Of Sunday afternoons
Family dinners
And warm food in my belly
Fall naps
And stealing a sip of mom's drink
It's just apple juice
But only her and dad get some
I walk upstairs
And slip off my shoes
Tired
And hang my purse on the hook in the wall
Before going to open the oven.
The heavenly smell increases
A smell of the past
A smell of memories
Of family
I pull the *** out of the oven and cautiously open the lid.
I'm washed over with old memories
As I inhale the smell of cooked veggies, roast, and red wine vinegar.
I reach in with some tongs and it falls apart
Soft
Perfect
Ready to eat
And when I take a bite
All I can think about is my mom
And Sunday afternoons
And that last sip of apple juice.
When I was a kid, Sundays after church we would always have dinner as a family. My mom would cook something special because it was Sunday, and we always got to have ice cream afterwards. That was our Sunday routine. We would have a quiet time or nap time afterwards, and spend the evening in peace and quiet. My mom makes the absolute best potroast, and I remember walking into the house after church and just smelling her cooking all ready to eat once we changed back into our normal clothes. I haven't been doing well. But on a whim, I decided to make my mom's recipe for potroast, and taking a bite of it healed me in a few places. I'm not doing well, but I'm gonna be alright.