The scent of lemon
lingers in the air,
tickling my nose.
It must beMom's chicken
again
just like last Tuesday,
but never like theFridays
when Grandma used to make it.
I set the table:
Mom at thewindow,
Dad right next to her,
but not today.

Today, it's just Momand me.
And yesterday,
It was just me,
sitting at the window,
staringat raindrops
and leftover chicken and rice,
the rice, cooling,uneaten
the chicken,
bland and tender.
Today's chicken isn'tyesterday's.

Mom is here,
asking, "How was practice?"
AndI pierce the chicken with my fork,
devouring it.
"It was fine," Isay,
and continue to chew.