The Taste of Memory | Caileigh Sawyer

I remember: 

the crust of bread, thick and warm, 

breaking under my fingers, 

the smell curling into the corners of the kitchen,

my mom laughing as butter melted into it.

Pasta swimming in sauce, 

red and thick, 

my grandmother’s hands twirling it onto my fork,

her eyes smiling across the table at mine.

Cake at birthdays, 

candles flickering, 

blowing them out with a wish 

and feeling the sweetness before it touched my tongue.

Food was never just fuel. 

It was whispered stories in the kitchen, 

late-night conversations over shared plates,

hands brushing, forks clinking,

love passing from one to another 

with every bite.

Then my body began to turn on me, 

slowly, silently — 

bread felt heavy, pasta was harsh, and cake was bitter,

and the table grew larger, emptier, colder.

I mourn the meals I can no longer hold, 

the laughter I can no longer taste. 

Yet in memory, they remain: 

warm, noisy, sticky with sauce, 

rich with love, 

as if no bite was ever lost.

---

Caileigh Sawyer is a senior English student at UAlbany. This is her first time being published. She enjoys reading, photography and playing with her corgi.