Cooking with My Daughter

I didn't want to say
how times have changed.
I knew you'd roll your eyes
at that.

But I was happy
just to bask in your presence
while you feverishly texted your fiance

and turned up the volume
on Gordon Ramsay.

I carefully washed each celery stalk,
trying to dice each piece
symmetrical to the other,

taking my time to stare
out the window
at wind ruffling the trees

while you laughed
and threw vegetables
into the pot with gusto,
saying how slow I was.

Though I didn't want to tell you,
I knew I would remember
the sight of your hands
chopping onions forever.

Remnants of red potatoes
like disgruntled soldiers
lay scattered across the stove top

while you tossed in milk and sour cream
by taste. We baked the biscuits,
then sat down in front of the TV to eat.

As you giggled at Gordon cursing
with your mouth full,
I ached to talk to you,

but said nothing
so as not to spoil the mood.

My future son in law
then barged in from work
and grumbled at me in his usual way,

taking you with him into your bedroom
and shutting the door.

And tonight, I am grateful
as I try to sleep, grateful for
the dog at my feet,

and for the strange, inherent
loneliness

of old age

and particularly of motherhood

and finally, grateful
for the memory of making
creamy chicken stew with you.