Lady at the Kitchen Table

By Emily Grodin

 

Late in the afternoon

When the sun peaks through and almost splits the room in half.

She emerges.

Floats through the room like a weightless balloon caught on a soft current of air from an open

window.

Some may call her frail,

Wrinkled lines and thinning skin,

But in her bright eyes there is a strength.

Hope and confidence still upright in a sea of blue waves eager to turn this vessel over,

She will not be moved.

The room fills with sweetness,

Roses freshly trimmed.

Warm cookies dipped in milk.

Her soft hands embrace a cup of tea,

Warmth engulfs her face as she lowers to sip.

All of long memories will fade with the steam,

A puzzled look settles in.

What’s been home for forty years now unfamiliar,

Glances around the room become as rapid as her beating heart.

She moans a desperate sigh,

Sadness pouring like the pitcher overturned splashes milk onto the floor.

Her brightness has faded just enough,

Each time a little more.

She awakens but was never asleep,

Lifts from her wooden chair her thin frame and stands tall.

Perhaps another cup of tea.