Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner
By Metta Ray

The sun peaks the mountain crest
The children rise and begin to dress
The hymns play loud for all to hear
Morning prayers are said, church time is near.

Mom in the kitchen preparing meat
Beef roast will be ready for all to eat
Placed in the pan, with water and spice
Now cut up the carrots, potatoes we’ll slice.

Onions, bullion, salt and ground chili pepper,
Garlic, water surround the beef supper.
Oven at 325 degrees, mind the hot stove
Pay attention please.

Her face so tired from the chores of night before
Her voice filled with love, her hands worn and sore.
The look in her eye, the food planned with care
The warmth in her heart, the memories I will share.

Off to the bathroom, shower and primp
The queen that appears is more than significant.
She pulls us together, she fixes our hair
We gather around her for our family prayer.

Home again from the preachers, she attends to the meat
With me right beside her, we prepare every seat.
Forks on the left, every crystal glass shined
The gravy is boiling the roast is divine.

The taste is of memories never forgot
The conversation a manuscript of love that is locked
Sunday morning comes weekly, of that I am sure
But now I am old and my own children procured.

I wake with the sun just peaking the crest
And I look in the cupboard and pick up the best.
A roast and an onion, some carrots and corn
I heat up the oven, 325 degrees warm

The potatoes are sliced, the carrots are wedged
The places are all set, no crystal to dredge.
Still forks on the left, glasses free of spots
The gravy still bubbles with care in the pot.

Memory flashes of her face as I season the roast
My own daughter stares on, maybe one day she’ll boast
Of her mother in the kitchen and the care and the warmth
Of her own Sunday dinners and the love that came forth.