eat, eat, dont wait for me

I remember my
mother's lasagna. I can see
her now in the kitchen
with the red sauce bubbling,
splattering her
walls and stove.
her laminated list of phone
numbers by the phone.
the wide pasta,
the cheese, her generous
spooning
of ricotta, mozzarella.
the sausage
beside it, the meatballs.
the green
salad in her big wooden
bowl on the table.
I remember how her glasses
would steam up
from the boiling water,
beads of sweat
on her forehead. eat, eat,
she's say.
wiping her hands on her
apron. don't wait for me.
eat while it's hot.
go, sit down.