Sunday Roast

Still warm from the shower, you sink into a chair while the roast takes its time and the radio plays low. Your mum works the counter beside you, chopping vegetables, squeezing lemons, gathering chives from the windowsill and rosemary carried in from the front garden. The wind moves through the garden and, far off, church bells tell you it is Sunday. It lives now as milky black tea, cream and sandalwood.