from where she is

from where she is now,
I wonder if my mother's hand
misses
the curl
of her spatula,
the stiffness of a spoon
to stir,
the feel of an iron
running across
clean clothes. does she
dream
of stews, the sound
of a lid
settling on the pot,
of birthday
cakes, pressing candles
into the icing.
writing each name in script.
is she tucking
us into bed at night,
reading to us still,
folding our
hands together to show
us prayer, turning off
the light.