Member Poem

we know nothing is ever the same
on this night, the thing was butterscotch pudding
I hate to break it to J-e-l-l-o but
they just don't make it like mom made it
standing in my kitchen finishing off a cup of the imposter
my mind transported back to nights so long ago
mom's butterscotch pudding was homemade
i know the ingredients now as i've made it myself
(still not the same just so you know)
but back then, all i knew were the results
creamy, thick, rich and sweet
the caramel colored pudding bubbling on the stove
quickly poured into green depression dessert dishes
placed into the refrigerator to cool
and the anticipation of a quickly finished supper
bringing the anxious waiting to an end
plunging my spoon into the treat
sometimes lucky enough to have a dollop of whip cream on top
I'd eat the pudding so quickly my dad would often ask
"did you even get a chance to taste it?"
my response, "may i have some more please?"
My mom would smile
it was one of those smiles of love and satisfaction
happy that her child was happy
that her efforts were rewarded with joy
often laughing at me as i would lick the remnants of the pudding off the edges of the glass
tonight, i whistle for my dogs and let them enjoy the last traces from the plastic cup
no. nothing is ever the same