I listened to her.
Tell me the story.
Of how terrible a cook she was.
She went on and on.
About how she burned water.
I looked at her like she was insane.
"Burning water isn't possible."
I told her.
Crossing my arms defiantly.
She stuck her tounge out at me.
And she said.
"Anything is possible."
I had no arguement.
I had nothing else to add.
Because there was no point in fighting.
So I made the pasta myself.
She sat on the counter next to me.
And sang.
It was soothing.
I hummed along to songs I knew.
Because I know I can't sing.
We watched cartoons.
And ate our pasta.
Laughing at childish things.
She insisted on cleaning up.
I at least offered to help.
Dry the dishes.
"All life's mysteries
Can be found
At the bottom of a dirty pot."
She told me.
Holding up the pot.
To my face.
I peered inside.
Searching for meaning.
In the pasta sauce.
She smiled warmly.
And asked me.
"Tell me, what do you see?"
At this moment I still didn't know.
But I did know.
I wanted to make her smile that way.
