Wait
written by: Aditi Dwivedi
I enter the kitchen, barefoot.
The cold floor forces my toes to curl inwards.
The open window invites a midnight breeze to send shivers down my spine.
I face the stove, turn on the knob.
I close my eyes. I wait.
The first time I entered this place
I was five. In my mother’s arms, my face nestled on her shoulder.
The colourful specks on the counter-top had seemed mesmerizing as she had sat me down.
My feet dangling, my nose overwhelmed by the smell of my favourite pudding.
I had decided then. Magic is what brews in here.
I look at the counter-top, a chip here a scratch there
The specks are not so colourful anymore.
The air still feels the same to me. It shouldn’t.
I rush towards the window and close it shut.
I sit on the chair, my chin rests on my hand.
I close my eyes. I wait.
I had come home from school. I was a bit older now.
My mother humming a gentle tune had placed a meal in front of me.
Wearing her favourite apron, the one with the bunny, the sun had shone through the window, lighting up her smile.
The silly bunny looks just like you, she had teased me.
I had decided then. Coming home was all I could ask for.
I look at the apron.
The bunny has lost its button eye,
The faded cloth doesn’t make him silly
He seems sad, even dead somehow.
The pungent smell irks my nose.
I walk towards the stove, breathe in the gas
I close my eyes. I wait.
I had come home from a hospital. I was a LOT older, an adult now.
There was no mum singing, just a heartbroken dad sitting, slouching, breaking down on her three-legged chair.
I had decided then. I won’t see this place without her anymore.
One last time, I remember the feast after my first prize, the broth prepared when I fell sick.
I remember the spill on the checkered tiles, the spoonful of icing to lick.
I reach out towards the matchstick, I say my goodbyes.
I close my eyes. I wait.
Just for the sake of it.
Wait. Just a second more. To hear her hum.
Wait. Just a second more. To smell her chocolate crumb.
Wait.
WAIT!
WAIT a second.
I will burn.
So will the apron and the bunny. So will daddy’s mug, grandmother’s basket and mother’s kitchen magnets.
I will burn.
So will my childhood, this place – her spirit and so will her heart.
My grip on the match loosens.
I open my eyes.
I turn off the knob, push open the window and I lean against the counter-top.
I wait.
