Rice Washed Three Times, As She Taught Me

Lyrics

She stood me on a wooden stool
beside the steaming pot,
and showed me how to wash the rice
till the water ran not
cloudy, then not clear,
but clear enough to know.
Three times, she said, and gently,
the way that good things grow.

Rice washed three times, as she taught me,
with the patience of her hands.
Every grain a small forgiveness,
every sink a quiet land.
I can hear her soft instruction
in the water's silver flow,
rice washed three times, as she taught me,
and I carry what I know.

She never wrote a single word,
she measured with her thumb,
a knuckle's depth of water,
and a hum, and then a hum.
Now I stand in my own kitchen,
a long way from her door,
and my hands remember for me
what my head forgets, and more.

Rice washed three times, as she taught me,
with the patience of her hands.
Every grain a small forgiveness,
every sink a quiet land.
I can hear her soft instruction
in the water's silver flow,
rice washed three times, as she taught me,
and I carry what I know.

Steam climbs up the window,
the lid begins to sing,
and for a moment I am small
and she is everything.
Her apron, her slow laughter,
the radio down low,
a whole life in a kitchen
that I carry as I go.

Rice washed three times, as she taught me,
with the patience of her hands.
Every grain a small forgiveness,
every sink a quiet land.
I can hear her soft instruction
in the water's silver flow,
rice washed three times, as she taught me,
and I carry what I know.

Three times, and gently,
three times, and slow.