I was eight when I fint learned the rhythm of silence in the kitchen,
It was a small room, with a single window that looked onto a narrow
alley where the sun vhited only in the afternoon.
The shelves were always full of jars, spices, and stories.
My mother moved like poetry there, turning simple ingredients
into meals that held the whole family together.
I remember the smell of cardamom in the air,
the sound of the kettle before it sang,
and the way she would hum old songs
without ever realizing 1 was listening.
That kitchen taught me that love is in the details.
In how you wait, how you prepare,
and how you make space for others.
It was the first place 1 understood belonging.