"Step Delicately"

-Photo by K. Rowe

One becomes accustomed to a home, making it cozy and pulsating with the beat of the heart as if you have wrapped yourself in a blanket.

These are the things I have become used to and am unsure if I should find other things to replace them or relish them in a little Mason Jar, glowing like fireflies on ripe fruit.

Waking facing the sunrise in my bed, slits of my eyes drinking in the blue, burgundy gold of the sun spilling over the horizon, like a gooseberry stain on white cloth, the smell of 6AM coffee, sweet/sour and vigorous

My fathers heavy steps in the kitchen above my room shuffling and meandering back and forth from burner to counter to refrigerator, the rhythm of knives and clanking bowls on granite a kind of soothing folk or jazz melody. Not actually seeing him with my own eyes but the thought of him above me, apron clad and pinched but happy brow, colors dotting the cutting boards like a painters palate.

The dirtied dishes of homemade chocolate pudding and root beer floats and my mothers lessons of how importance indulgence is. And my 1AM excursions to the fridge to fulfill my own with whipped cream cans.

The restaurant I've made my home away from bed. The back entrance beckoning me with smells only the compact kitchen there, on that street, beside the brick alleyway, can divulge, the smiles, greetings, grunts, laughs, love touches. People I know beyond the white Polo's and black dress pants. Whose souls are as scrumptious as each dish chef prepares. I would drink their blood and sweat like vintage wine and aged balsamic.

I used to have a bad taste in my mouth about this town, sour and bitter, tainting my taste buds.

But now...