Mom's Kitchen

Mom’s Kitchen

The only tool Dad owned was a screw driver;

He stored it in the glove box and used it to remove license plates;

He left our cars wherever they died.

Mom’s collection of tools was fine.

With them she transformed Grandma’s musty old basement

Into a garden apartment for nine.

She hung drywall down the middle of that crypt

Painted the prison walls green

Papered a wall in ivy – cottage style –

And parked the stove in front. 

Three lockers for cabinets held dishes and food

like a wall of white sentinels

until the day Aunt Janice, three hundred pounds

came down the stairs the hard way. 

I still remember the thunder of those metal cabinets crashing to the floor. 

 Mom made room for us:

A stationary tub bathed babes

while laundry loads waited their turns.

She carved a cubby for her sewing machine

and a big blackboard sat on a wall;

I don’t remember how she fit a fridge

but she did.

In the center of Mom’s kitchen was a table

where we sat with family and friends;

we did homework, played games

and did crafts;

we talked and prayed

prepared foods

repaired moods

made memories, made meals

and we laughed.