The Kitchen on North York Street

by Sue Gee

The clank of the iron handle
Lifting each round burner lid
Checking the fire, she replaces the heavy cover
I sit at the long table and think about the day ahead

Up before others, my mother and I have a certain routine
Almost like a dance in the morning warming kitchen
As she stokes to life the embers of last night’s cooking
I watch and lean in from my place at the table

I know the next step in the dance like I know my own name
The large pot filled with water and heated to a boil
Then the oats for the cereal that will soon be spooned
Into our white china bowls, each with a favorite Brer Rabbit scene

Slightly marred by surface cracks from so much washing
The china characters are faded at random places
This bunny’s ear is almost gone
This tree is half-covered with green, almost discernible leaves

How smooth are her movements as she hooks each cover with the smooth handle
Using just the right twist of her wrist
While taking a few side steps to reach with her left hand
Into the kindling box and then toss small chips into the fire

How many mornings started this way
In my years of growing up in this house
Until the wood cook stove was replaced
With the new electric range

The mornings changed almost immediately
The rhythm was never quite the same
No more crackling of wood or clanking of iron handle
The warmth seemed to leave that kitchen

The dance with my mother and me became less of a flow
Within the embrace of that warmth
And more of a colder step-by-step approach to the day

I went on
As children do
Without a backward glance
Not knowing what was missing