Her Turn

Sit down, Mama. We've got the kitchen tonight. Fifty years and most of them spent singing someone else's song — cakes at midnight, candles counted, you never once got the order wrong. The house still smells like your Sunday cooking, the hum you hum when you think we're gone. Tonight the apron's hanging up. Tonight we got it from here. It's her turn — fifty candles burning, for the woman who lit every one of ours. Her turn — the whole house singing the song she's been humming for fifty years. Sit down, Mama. Stay right there. This one's yours. You kept our secrets, drove the miles, clapped at things we did half-right, gave up gladly what we'll never know about — and called it nothing, every time. Your hands still find whoever's hurting. Tonight they're only holding cake. The apron's hanging up. We got it from here. It's her turn — fifty candles burning, for the woman who lit every one of ours. Her turn — the whole house singing the song she's been humming for fifty years. Sit down, Mama. Stay right there. This one's yours. Half a century in, and you're still the one we call first. That doesn't change at fifty. That doesn't change at all. It's her turn — fifty candles burning, for the woman who lit every one of ours. Her turn — the whole house singing the song she's been humming for fifty years. Sit down, Mama. Stay right there. This one's yours. Sit down, Mama. We've finally learned the words.