The noise of utensils clanging became loud. Aroma of freshly cooked rice wafted. I could feel my mom busying herself in the kitchen.
I looked at the clock, stopped the alarm, got up and got dressed.
“おはよう – Good morning.”
We hastily ate as we took our seats around the dining table. Dad first, then me, my brother, and finally, my sister. Mom remained busy until we all left.
The commotion of busy morning rituals was also filled with love. I am grateful for that.
Whenever I cook rice, it reminds me of my childhood.
Not quite the same since I now have to eat brown rice. None of us remains young forever, do we?