North, 125 miles to visit my 95-year-old Mother,
a pot of my homemade sauce and meatballs
in the box on the back seat. Arrival.
Hugs, “Mom, you look great. Are you ready to eat soon?
Water’s boiling, pasta be ready in 15 minutes.”
“I can eat anytime.” We wheel her to the table.
We eat. “Mama, you like the sauce?”
“I taught you how to make it.”
“Yes, I just use more oregano and basil.”
I wipe off a spot of sauce from her chin.
Spooning up the last mostaccioli
Mama says, “You can cook for my wedding.”