My mother gives love like she makes spaghetti;
she never can tell when it’s too much
until it’s already on the table.
When my mother cooks, she waits
and won’t take a bite until you have.
She watches with eyes wide, almost fearfully,
waiting for a rejection of what she toiled over.
A mouthful, a smile, and her sigh of relief
before she loads her fork.
The thing is, no matter how delicious the mouthful,
how genuine the smile,
there will always be pasta left for her to put away.
She’ll save it for later,
hurt that any went uneaten.
It’s not her fault,
she just made too much.
