Margin Notes

The shelves were heavy with the books she left behind,

An endless archive gathered by a curious mind.

Cookbooks by the hundreds, tastes of every land,

Yet the truest treasure came directly from her hand.

For tucked between the recipes of butter, spice, and yeast,

Lay handwritten edits for a family’s quiet feast.

A penciled alteration, a measure to correct,

A gentle score of dishes that had earned her deep respect.

To trace her cursive letters brings a warmth of yesterday,

Yet stirs a quiet ache for all that slipped away.

She collected every volume, every title that she could—

Leaving notes along the margins to remind us of the good.