The sweet smell of spices radiated from the stove,
the hypnotic stirring
of a wooden spoon drew me in, my gaze
falling to the swirling and bubbling below,
its warmth pulling me closer as my
grandmother cooked.

As I stir now
alone in my kitchen I can see
images of us
sitting around the table
a family together
talking and laughing
so easily

I can see
the way we were in the yard
playing
on the old swing-set,
the one long gone
broken and rusted and
thrown away

I can see still
the lake alive with wind
misting our feet as we walked
along the rocks
small stones skip, skip, skip
skipping
and then gone,
sinking
in the waters murky depths

As I stir the lone stove pot I feel
a strange unknown weighing on me
and I know now
that somewhere below the boil hides
those same skipping stones
waiting to be found,
if only to be tossed again.