My mother’s kitchen, it will always fill my head with memories, like it has ­always filled my belly with its delectable delights.
I will always see the fluorescent lights penetrating through the smoke of the oven like heavenly luminescence pierces the clouds.
I will always crane my head at the cat, perched high atop the fridge, ­overseeing the rough and tumble of everyday life, a furred king ­overseeing his peasants.
I will always hear the echoed gurgling flush of the toilet down the hall like an ­ancient leviathan bellowing toward the lonely sea.
I will always marvel at the ocean blue marble countertops piercing through the linoleum tile like a geographic wonder.
I will always laugh at Mom slipping on the newly shined tile, or Dad’s cursing drowned under the dutiful whistle of the smoke detector every time he burnt
his pizza.
I will always ache from the clanging thunderstorm of the pots and pans, only to be comforted by the calm drone of the dishwasher.
I will always shuffle through the countless drawers, wading through seas of starch and oceans of oregano to reach the solitary pepper jar.
I will always feast upon the endless delights from the freezer after ungodly hours of homework and sleep deprivation, fueling my dreams with lucid amazement.
I will always look upon the hardwood portal separating the futuristic cleanliness of modern appliances, from the old hardwood wonder of the tables and hutches.
I will always remember my mother’s kitchen as a provider, a friend, a tertiary parent living amongst us like a silent guardian, a room I will ­always remember even if time forgets.