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My Auntie used to make a whopper Christmas dinner.
Mas was slated for her inability to compare when it came to the kitchen.
Prosperity diminished as we complimented her sister with finished food and empty plates,
Never negate from the veg that she made.
“No stuffing for me sound” …
Still, it would appear on my plate.
We’d ate the hand off you during our feast way back when.
Mother’s pride would sew her lips,
But I could notice her pearl eyes change to emerald during the dinner.
I’d try to soothe her by rubbing my belly to rub it in her face sarcastically.
“Gerrup ma, take the notes down, the standard is set for next year”

This year, I make my own meal.
I’d given me heart for one of her hearty meals,
Though there comes a time we must all flock from our nest.
Still, mammy gets a text requesting any left overs be left in containers in case my attempt at cheffing doesn’t work towards my favour.
I’m brought back to the kitchen table, and the love I hold for her when I looked in her eyes.
I head her sarcastic voice as her text replies;
“I’m sure I’ll have enough for you”

Emmet O’ Brien | Poet | Co. Dublin, Ireland.

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