still see my mother
standing
in the kitchen dropping
home made
donuts
into the vat of oil,
boiling
on the stove,
then rolling them in
cinnamon sugar
on a board.
how warm they were,
the taste
still lingers
in my mouth, the cinnamon
still on my
lips
and nose.
the steam of dough.
one more,
one more
we begged,
as she smiled and said no.
save some for when your
father gets home.
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