This afternoon I am at the kitchen table with a bowl of watermelon and a mug of vanilla jasmine tea, writing a few letters and working on cajoling a poem into form. The windows are open and an occasional spry breeze tosses an envelope from the stack beside me onto the floor. I've scratched out a packing list of things to take for an upcoming trip to Arizona to see my mom and have finished up the last bit of laundry, the air still holding the fragrant scent of lavender.
The warmth and hospitality of a kitchen often makes me linger, long after meals have been served and the dishes cleared. I am happy I will soon be in the familiar kitchen of my mother's house, my childhood home. We will celebrate her eighty-five years over good food, laughter, and clusters of fond rememberings.
* I love this magnetic poem on the fridge left by my friend Brooke.