I can hear my mothers voice from the kitchen.
She is speaking softly, gently, like a low hum,
naming herbs to my sister;
Chives, basil, mint, oregano, sage.
The stew pot simmers, gently bubbling over the quiet roar of the gas hob.
“Add some olive oil.”
Generations of knowledge related in a low murmur, enunciated with warm laughs and the guiding of brown, calloused hands.
The watery crunch of salad being sliced and the porcelain rasp of plates being taken down from the Welsh Dresser can be heard.
Tomato turns the air hazy with scent and it clings to their hair,
As they dish up and my sister gives a proud smile.
It tasted fucking awful.