The Last Bite - Rylie F

The pot hums, breathing steam into the kitchen,

garlic and onions whispering in the oil,

rice swelling like lungs taking their first breath.

The wooden spoon scrapes against the bottom

a lullaby, a heartbeat, a memory.

Grandmother stirs, wrist aching but steady,

wrinkled hands weaving history into the broth.

She hums an old song no one else remembers,

but we all know the melody.

At the table, we pass bowls like stories,

heaping spoons of yesterday onto our plates.

My brother eats too fast, my mother laughs,

my father watches like he’s saving this moment,

tucking it away where time can’t touch it.

Grandmother lifts her spoon slowly, deliberately,

tastes, nods, smiles

and I wonder if she is tasting the past,

If she is remembering all the tables before this one,

all the faces now missing,

all the hands that once stirred this same pot.

We eat.

We savor.

We know.

Because the last bite always comes too soon.