The Scent of Mothers Before Me

I cradle the basin in my lap
Heads of garlic ready to be cracked
Open
Each clove peeled
Stored

This is the unseen
Unsung work of mothers
Sitting for hours
Legs crossed on the floor
To prep for a dish
A meal
For days to come
We see beyond now 
And plan for tomorrow
Is there ever an end?

The smell of garlic lingers
On my fingertips
It’s the scent of Korean mothers
Before me
And for once I welcome it
To stay

Poem inspired by this article by Alabaster Co. 

“What if we reimagined cooking's purpose? Our mothers and fathers would be our first artists, forming food that imprinted us with experiences of delight, satisfaction, and love. Our daily routines of food-making would not merely serve purposes of utility or quick-fixes, but involve an exploration of our creative and spiritual lives.”