He picks up his mug and shadows my pace,
Through brightened hallways where soft echoes play,
In the quiet kitchen, we find our space,
Amidst the warmth of the end of the day.

I bring my mug and his mother’s plate,
Together we wash, a dance that we know,
With laughter and stories, we share the weight,
As water flows gently, our bond starts to grow.

Each dish that we dry holds a moment so dear,
A rhythm of life, both simple and sweet,
In silence we find all that we hold near,
Our hearts beat together, a comforting beat.

This routine, though small, we cherish and keep,
In our kitchen of love, our memories steep.

Tomaž Jevšenak