Mom, in the kitchen crying.
I put my hand on her shoulder,
ask if she wants to cook something.
She says she doesn’t know how.
I hand her an apron.
Show her how to dice the onions, Dad’s way.
April joins us midway.
She opens cans of beans, tomatoes.
All three of us make Dad’s chili.
We get it—almost—right.
We take our time eating.
April adds extra salt.
Mom reheats hers in the microwave.
As we finish up,
the summer sun lingering
late into the night,
I ask Mom if I
can go with her
to her studio
tomorrow.