On the wooden cutting board
I would slice the stalks
off the mushrooms, and then
slice those stalks into strands.
My sharp knife following
the pattern enbedded
inside my ageing brain
of how she would do it...

time and time again.

Of course I was young
and maybe unobservant
of some other technique
Grandma used to use.
No matter, because over
the years I have tried,
my fried mushrooms never
taste the same as hers...

and I guess, never will.

My God! Can't you weep
that Life is so blighted
to be filled with memories
of things you never ever
asked to cease to be?
Yet if they were again,
as once they surely were,
we would want to change
how we reacted to them...

the cruelty of learning.

© Griffonner 2023