The Kitchen

Grenadine spiders spinning webs of golden threads and laying eggs made of saccharine.

A bright blue pane of glass in the window of the kitchen door, framed by yellow trim with a chipped missing splinter. A thin screen of mist on the outside.

Three clear crystalline jars lined up on the counter: one, big, with flour, another small with sugar, and one for Goldilocks. All glinting in rays of light, shades of blue, flecks of gold, shimmering red.

The window, half open, letting in the breeze and smells of grass, dirt, laundry and tomato leaves. The curtain, flowing in the breeze. White with small yellow flowers that are orange in the middle, and sweetly accented by bees that nestle themselves into the loose cotton weave.

Pale yellow tile on the counter, where a finger can trace the raised corners from years of grout being scrubbed away. Little four by four squares, bending kindly in a curve down towards the cabinets.

The cabinets, golden brown wood with delicate line borders, thin deep grooves that reiterate their shape. They say again “this is how I have always been.” Little cabinet pulls, round and flat with only specks of varnish hanging on. So many openings, so many closings, so many hand-holdings.

An old gas stove with the numbers all worn off on the knobs, even the ones that were once repainted by a caring hand, above an oven that seems too small. All measured by fire and feel.

Oven mitts hanging on the wall, all crocheted with bits of leftover yarn from sweaters and hats and loving, warm shawls.

Pale blue wallpaper, with a thousand painted horses all jumping and running, whinnying, rearing their heads in play. All in their own perfect little field of sky.

Deep brown tiles on the ground, so large your feet can fit stacked into one. It’s cold against your toes, save for the spots where the morning sunlight catches it. It’s a silence you could shatter, a peace you could busy, a place that is meant to bustle. But you just stand there and soak it all in.