Mashed Potatoes

You said:

start with cold water

salt it like the sea

cut the potatoes evenly

so they cook the same

and don’t get mushy.

Your voice had that syrup-thick warmth

that made commands sound like lullabies,

but still—commands.

You hovered like steam over my shoulder,

peering into the pot like it held my future.

“Not like that—here, let me.”

You snatched the peeler,

scraping skin like you’d done it for years,

and maybe you had,

but this time was supposed to be mine.

Still, I let you stir.

I let you tell me what kind of milk.

How much butter.

How to mash them just enough—

not too smooth, not too lumpy.

Your hands moved like memory,

like mothering,

like you were kneading every unsaid thing

into the folds of Yukon gold.

Trying to shape something perfect.

Something you could call your own.

Again.

But I reached for the spoon,

gently, this time.

“I got it, Ma.”

You hesitated,

like you wanted to fight me for the flavor.

Then stepped back.

Sat down.

Silent.

I added a touch of garlic.

A little cream.

Mashed them soft, not smooth.

Left some lumps—

on purpose.

A little bite. A little me.

And when we ate,

you smiled,

mouth full of pride and surprise.

Didn’t say a word about how I did it “wrong.”

Just passed the bowl

and said:

“You did that, baby. You really did.”

And I did.

With your recipe.

And mine.

And it was enough.

It was good.

Just like me.

Ariel A. Phoenix (2025)