Chapter 13 - The Kitchen Table
The kitchen at my parents’ house smelled of yeast and wet pine needles from the woods behind the garage.
The oilcloth with the faded lemons was gone, replaced by a smooth, unpainted oak surface that my father had spent the previous weekend sanding down until the wood grain looked like silk. In the center sat a white ceramic mug of black coffee for him and a mug of tea with lemon for me.
Lily was sitting in a high chair that my father had dragged out of the attic and rebuilt—a heavy wooden thing with a leather strap across the waist that smelled faintly of saddle soap.
My mother stood at the stove, turning a batch of bacon in the cast-iron skillet with a long metal fork. The rhythmic hiss-crack of the grease filled the room, steady and familiar.
"Did you call the plumber about the basement drain?" my father asked, stirring his coffee with a silver spoon that had a bent handle.
"I called him," my mother said without turning around. "He said Thursday. Which means Friday, if we’re lucky."
"I can look at it tomorrow," my father said.
"You’ll just get your good shirt greasy like last time."
"I have old shirts, Helen."
"You never wear the old ones. You save them until they fall apart in the wash."
I sat across from Lily, watching her try to grab the handle of her plastic spoon and miss by three inches. The sunlight was pouring through the east-facing kitchen window, catching the dust motes dancing in the warm air above the sink.
For the first time since I had stood on that porch on Christmas morning, the house didn't feel like a museum or an audit room. It just felt old, and quiet, and heavy with the kind of history that can't be thrown out in the garbage or scrubbed away with a green scouring pad.
My mother set a plate of cinnamon buns on the center of the table between us. They were hot, the white sugar glaze melting into the cracks of the crust, sending up a rich, sweet cloud of cinnamon and butter.
She pulled out her chair—the one with the grease stain on the cushion—and sat down next to Lily. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. She just reached out with one finger, her nail neatly clipped and unpolished, and touched the back of Lily’s hand where her fingers were curled around the plastic spoon.
Lily stopped struggling with the spoon. She turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto my mother’s face with that intense, unblinking stare that made my mother’s mouth twitch at the corners.
"She has your hands," my mother said softly.
May you like
"She has my father’s nose," I said.
My father grunted from behind his coffee mug, a sound of quiet agreement, and reached across the table to break off a corner of the cinnamon bun.
