It’s Good Friday.
The early afternoon sunlight
slants through the window.
I am standing here, in the kitchen,
squishing and squeezing the meat
between my fingers.
Kneading it, like sticky dough.
Rolling it, into firmly packed balls.

As Tori Amos sings,
‘Hold on to nothing as fast as you can’,
I look down at my hands, coated in fat, speckled with seasoned bread crumbs.
And suddenly, they become
my grandmother’s smaller, fleshier, darker hands.
And suddenly, I am my grandmother,
in the big kitchen, at the big table, in the big house.
Where she made so many meatballs
on so many Sundays.

Where she once looked at me in sadness and disbelief,
as the vegetarian teenager I was becoming
told her I would no longer
be eating her meatballs.
So I ate one.
To make her happy…

As Tori sings,
‘Some things are melting now’,
I think of a photo that someone posted,
of your mother’s hands,
covered in flour, cutting homemade pasta.
And suddenly, she is here
in the kitchen with me.
Suddenly, she is beside me,
and also in me.

Together, we will cook the meat.
For the people I love.
To make them happy…
All of those who came before me,
who cooked before me, are always here.
In the big kitchen. At the big table. In the big house.
My grandmother is in the gravy.
Your mother is in the meatballs.
Their souls are in the sauce.

They are all bubbling up to the surface,
on this Good Friday.
And Tori sings,
‘A-ha. Pretty good.’