My Mother’s Kitchen

Full of worn utensils and partially melted spatulas.

Old hand towels with burns and stains from years past.

When I see that old crock pot and cast iron something about me calms and relaxes.

I picture her muddling about, bending into the refrigerator in search of that elusive ingredient.

I remember when that handle broke;

when I was chased by that wooden spoon;

all the birthday cakes in that long glass dish.

Chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.

The same dish scrubber, the familiar butter dish, all the unnecessary yet necessary knickknacks.

Those silly electric salt and pepper shakers.

Her collection of cobalt.

When did this space shift from the everyday to nostalgia.

When did life move from moments to memories.


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