Little Hands

My job was to stir
Sounds simple
A wooden spoon
Round and round
But I remember
Heat rising from
The slow-to-boil
Sweetness
My dad was always
Nearby, of course
In case little hands
Became tired
It only took
Helping one time
For the tasty
Result to be
Permanently
Etched in my soul-
How is it that
Precious details
Are so easily
Forgotten-
Eating the remaining
Warm chocolaty filling
Out of tiny glass bowls
Once my dad filled
His homemade pie crusts-
May my memory
Of a yesterday
Erase any complaints
From today