Her hands move like memory—
onions sizzling in golden oil,
spices tossed in
with the care of a story retold.
Coriander drifts like incense
through the quiet kitchen,
turmeric stains her fingers
as if she’s touched sunlight.
The chicken simmers in rhythm,
each bubble in the pot
a soft whisper of comfort,
a promise slow-cooked.
She doesn’t measure,
only knows—
how much heat a heart can take,
when to stir,
when to wait.
The aroma finds us
before her voice does—
calling us from corners of the day,
pulling us in
like the warmth of old quilts
and Sunday laughter.
We gather,
silent first bite,
and then—
only the sound of satisfaction,
of love,
served over rice.
Therapy Bits 
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