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The grocery store always tucks away the salt in a corner
which you frequent no more than a few times a year
while in your own kitchen
the salt jar is always placed in a prominent position
The blue and white porcelain jar has seen better years
covered by a lid that’s not the original
You stand by the cooktop, throwing into the pan of boiling oil
some cold ingredients
You love the sizzling sounds
that awakes memory of years past
a certain afternoon, near dusk
you watched from the cooking area your mother
wielding a spatula in the smoke
and stirring this way and that the dull bottom of a pot
Since then you’ve believed
palatable life originates from
traces of clear memories