I watched you often,
somtimes,
not a lot.
I sat on the counter top,
legs kicking, arms swinging, mouth moving.
You made it seem so easy,
cooking for a family of 13.
The big turkey filled with stuffing,
Dumplings, gravy, extra cuttings.
Huddled round the small dinning table,
chatting utter nonsense,
laughing at what was on cable.
But when we tidied away our plates away,
arguments began
over stupid mistakes,
and no one bothered to return
to our small dining table.
Now Sundays are longer the same,
but still I will wait.
