Brooding troubling clouds ride the horizon,
Enveloping the gentle breeze as the birds whispered.
There I am, sitting on a hand-made bench.
Cross-legged, head tilted up with my copy of ‘If My Father Loved Me.’
I can hear the pot boiling, as the breeze lifts up the smell of the spices to my willing nose.
It is time to get up to check the stew,
To make sure that all the ingredients are pleasantly mixed for my taste.
Ha! but here I am stubbornly flipping another page.
It is dangerous to cook when your senses busy in a prose.
Reluctantly, I stand up lips perched in vexation strutting to the stove.
It is time to add the dumplings.
I think of Sadie and her perfume father as I drop each dumpling in the waiting spices and peas.
I wonder if she will ever find peace in her relationship with her son Jack?
I need to return to her story.
So I quickly cut off the remaining dough in funny shapes, dumping them into the pan.
This is not time for perfection!
I smile in content,
I am back to Sadie’s life, soaking up her emotional journey, thinking of mine.
Wait a minute! What is that smell!
Oh no, my dumplings are burning.