By Odelle Duffy
It was big and open. She liked being able to see her family, her blessings, her life. She wanted her family to see her. I always saw her. The island was large, I used to sit at it and watch. She used to put me on chopping duty, it was always my job. My grandpa would tell vulgar jokes. I always laughed, even if I didn’t get it. My grandma used to smack him with her wooden spoon if the joke was too vulgar. She only used wooden spoons; she always said it was something about the sound. I always tried listening, but I didn’t hear what she heard. Maybe it was her old age or maybe it was her superpower. She could hear you, even if you didn’t know what to say. My uncle would strum his old guitar and the sound would float to the kitchen. It would surround my grandma and me, wrapping us in warmth. My favorite room in the house, in any house, in her house was the kitchen.
It always smelt of flowers. Lilacs, magnolias, roses, daffodils, peonies. On holidays it would smell like roast or raisin bread or rice or rum cake. She was the best cook I knew but she had become weary with age. She forgot things, she substituted items that could not be substituted, she undercooked and overcooked. I loved every bite of it. She taught me many things and didn't teach many things, all on purpose.
It had windows, many windows. Sunlight. Her favorite cooking tool. My favorite watching and learning and enjoying tool. I will always think of her when I see those yellow streams. Kitchen witches, figurines she had in every kitchen she owned. I thought they were normal until I grew older. She said they ‘bring good luck and love and life’. I believed her, I still believe her. When I moved, I got my very own kitchen witch. I started making my own memories, my own music, my own life. But she is always there, laughing, watching, cooking.
As we sit in the pews, squished together like sardines, I can hear the cars speed past outside and the barking dog down the street. That’s the thing about life, it doesn’t stop. Even when we die it doesn’t stop. My dress itches my thighs, I have always hated this dress. My father says it’s respectful to wear black. But if she could see us now, I can only imagine how livid she would be. She was too colorful for black. As the church bells ring in the background and a silence falls over the crowd, I want nothing more than to be in her kitchen. If I close my eyes just right, I can smell the magnolias on the counter and taste her rum cake and hear what I imagine the wooden spoons sound like and feel the sun on my skin and see her standing in her kitchen, smiling down at me.
Odelle Duffy is currently a Senior at New Mexico State University. She is majoring in Criminal Justice with minors in English, Forensic Science, and Psychology. She plans to graduate this May and continue her education by earning a Master's in Restorative Justice.
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