Kitchen

By Calen Romig

So much happens in a kitchen.

That’s what a kitchen is for, really.

For things to happen.

For living and growing and sunshine and tomatoes and music and softness. But also for yelling

and spills and clattering and knives used with too much caution.

Men laughing together, women hugging.

A dinner party, dim lamp ligh, and chattering and exclamations of joy and wine stains on lips.

Delirious words of adoration.

A startled cry when he finds them together.

Two boys getting ready for a birthday, getting more sprinkles on each other than on the cake.

A whirlwind of activity before the holidays.

Crying as she’s cooking dinner and suddenly realizing that it’s not because of the onions.

Being too tired to wash dishes, so he does them for you, giving a gentle kiss from soapy hands.

Kids baking cookies for their mother, and delighting in the flour and the failure and the chocolate.

Friends singing along to the radio as they share pizza and stories and sit crossed-legged on the

counter.

A mother rolling out cookies for her best friend’s sick son.

A big family, constantly happy and shouting and busy, tripping over the dog as they unpack their

groceries.

Siblings fighting over the last piece of pie.

The light from the refrigerator door, exposing how thin she really looks.

Recipes from years ago, stained with memories and saffron and vanilla.

Hungry little ones screaming their hate for peas.

A daughter learning from her father.

A son dancing with his lover.

Someone slowly sinking to the ground, back to the pain, spine twisted between the knobs of the

cabinet, hands shaking with fatigue, mind fogged with something that if it had a name it would

kill you.

To make something from nothing is an art, and this art is done best in the kitchen.

By Calen Romig