From My Kitchen At 2AM
- an anticipation of solitude, spices, and something like peace. I haven’t moved in yet, but I already know what it’ll sound like. There will be the soft metallic rattle of utensils as I unpack them into drawers still echoing from years of someone else’s life. The snap of bubble wrap as I unwrap the single mug I’ve claimed as mine . The one I will rinse a hundred times, the one that will hold coffee, tea, guilt, and soup. I already know the soft beep of the induction top, the way it wakes like a machine reluctant to serve. No flames here- only a tired red circle glowing beneath the pot, precise and impersonal. The way the oil will protest (just a little) when I drop mustard seeds into it. The silence that follows, not empty, but full. The way the spoon will scrape the bottom of the pan in a rhythm that only I know, only I need to. This kitchen will be mine. Mine to clutter, mine to clean. Mine to ignore at 4 PM and adore at 2 AM. I imagine peeling garlic at midnight. Not becaus...
