The moment that made me feel alive
was not loud, not fast—
it simmered.
Energy came to me
on a warm plate,
served by my mother’s hands.
Food—the first power source,
the quiet fuel of joy.
A ladle in her grip
turns the ordinary into wonder,
makes heaven feel
just a few steps from the dining table.
A simple dish,
yet the taste blooms—
worldly, rich, unforgettable.
I lick my fingers,
wipe the plate clean,
trace the last memory of flavor
with my tongue, again and again,
unwilling to let the moment end.
Sweet or hot,
pickle sharp with love,
brinjals, beets, beans—
every bite says live.
And it isn’t just the food.
It’s her words,
soft as steam rising,
her smile seasoning everything just right.
In that moment,
full to the edges of my heart,
I am active, joyful, happy—
completely, unmistakably alive.
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