by Kim O'Hara

NaPoWriMo #2: Tacos with the Family

It begins the same as always
Two pounds of ground beef in red globs
Turning slowly brown
Dad stirs, determined to
break reluctant chunks into tiny bits
Son braves
 onion tears
Mouth-breathing

Knife rolling, flashing, slicing
Till rings lie finely diced
And one section of the
Traditional serving platter is white-filled

Younger daughter wields cheddar brick
Against metal teeth
Handfuls of grated wonder
Fill two more sections
Because no amount is ever enough
Mom spins tortillas with bare hands
On the dry-hot 
pan
Where touch alone reveals the moment
Each is
hot and almost crisp
And stacked on a covered plate 
Dad adds two seasoning packets
Two cups water
Spatula pressing flavor in
Son chops three tomatoes
Recently plucked from vines out back
Round red orbs become chunks
Another section filled
Two to go and then the older
Daughter tears lettuce leaves
To fill two more pockets
Sour cream fits the center spot perfectly
A spoon in the salsa means dinner’s ready
And Mom wishes for avocados