You are standing at the counter, waiting for her to find the good knife, and you are a little bored.
I remember this. I remember the drawer that stuck, the one she jiggled twice and then hit with the heel of her hand, and how the whole kitchen smelled of butter gone slightly brown and the coffee she reheated all morning without ever finishing.
You are watching the clock a little. You have somewhere to be after this. You cannot imagine, right now, that a room could ever be the thing you miss.
But look at her hands for a second. The way she peels an apple in one long ribbon without looking down, still talking to you, the peel curling into the sink. She has done this ten thousand times. She is not thinking about it at all. That carelessness, that ease, is the whole miracle, and you will not understand that until much later, when you try to peel an apple that way yourself and the ribbon breaks, and breaks again, in a kitchen that is yours now.
Eat the thing she is making. Even if you are not hungry. Especially then.
And when she asks you, for the third time, whether you are warm enough, whether you have eaten, whether you want more, do not sigh. Say yes. Let her feed you. It is the only sentence she knows for the thing she means.
You will get to keep the recipe. You will not get to keep the drawer that sticks, or her hip against yours at the counter. So stay a few more minutes. You are not late.
I promise you, from here, you were never late.