My mother was in the kitchen
Speckled, vinyl floors, and smooth, white counters
Among pale-painted walls, with an oval, yellowed light.
She was busy cooking
Stepping from roasting oven to picture-covered fridge
Walking from glossy black stove to deep, porcelain sink.
She watched the heat
Steam rising from bubbling pots, waves dancing from baking pans,
The glowing red circles fading in and out on the stove.
She stayed content
Opening and closing wooden cabinets and drawers
As golden knobs blinked between light and her shadow.
I sat watching my mother
In her country kitchen, from the cushioned chair
With a high seat and long legs, pushed under the island bar.
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