The beef soup arrived at our table
 innocently enough,
 for my friend had ordered it so.
 Its aroma wafted through the air over our table
 and into my nose in the blink of an eye,
 and suddenly 
 I was transported
 to the church hall of my childhood,
 sitting just outside the kitchen
 next to my mom.
 She was cutting carrots and celery and onions
 that made her cry
 as she talked about grown-up things
 with the other ladies from church
 as they too cut carrots and celery and onions
 that made them cry.
 Occasionally another lady from church
 would bustle by with a big bowl
 collecting all their carvings,
 just so they could start again
 digging into the mountain on the middle of the table 
 of uncut carrots and celery and onions
 that made them all cry.
 In the memory of this moment now,
 I wonder why I never told my mother
 that right there at her side in that church hall
 had always been 
 one of my favorite places to be.