The Silence of Your Kitchen

Her recipe book is so enlarged,

the thinning, yellow pages had to be bound with a rubber band.

I -SNAP- open the sticky rubber and -POP- the paper flies.

The smooth circles of cursive letters ache

when compared to the jittery script scratches of the back pages.

I -CRUNCH- hold the leather and -TEAR- the corner folds.

Weight alone, without motion, is dead weight,

but I haven't the power

to -CRASH- heaven's gate and -BANG- bring you back.

Tears make the waxy paper even more brittle,

and ink smears around the warmth of my hand.

I -SCREAM- desperate cries of loss and -SLAM- down my fist.

No longer will you etch the details of your creations,

you and your words will remain stationary.

No more chicken -SCRATCH- or homemade popcorn -CRACKLE-

I pick up what's left of the loose paper,

and decipher one you wrote.

The glass bowls -CLING- while I let your timer -RING-

You might have been proud,

if you were somehow able to see me now.

Your grandchild -CLANG- -SLOSH- -SPLASH- in your kitchen.

The memories of our table seep a gentle vibration through my

shaking hand, as I restretch the rubber band.

My ears -BUZZ- and -HISS- with one last bite

in the silence of your kitchen.