Pd:1 Priyadarshan S

I remember my mom making smashed potato (her style) for me. The way the butter warmed my heart. And how the pepper burned my nose. I remember the spiciness burning my tongue. Like flaming fierce fire. It's touch was mushy and soft pillow. I remember the brown mush. How the mush reminded me of dirt. Each time I recall this memory, I just want it again. Dreaming, when will I have it again. I want my mommy's smashed potato.