Cold nights always fogged the kitchen windows. As I drove into the driveway, I could make out your shape moving about, talking with the girls.
Sometimes I paused before walking in, wanting the whole effect of the scene; I used to mock my parents for such traditional American images.
The table would be set, I had a place as did you, L & C. They were never as forthcoming with their day as were you.... nor was I. Did I not speak because of that distance between us? Or did I not want to disrupt that which was in front of me by inserting myself?
I thought about my kitchen table seat the other day, now serving another. Envy brews when I consider that he gets to share dinner with all of you, and see your nights wind down, from energy to silence. Thinking about my kitchen table seat leads to what used to be my bed... and i envy him more for being able to see you sleep, how your face closes softly and your hair rains.
