Near the Passaic River

I think about that kitchen a lot,
tiny and warm and the source of magical
breads and sustenance for half a dozen
people over 40 years.
I can see the old white enamel appliances.
Hear the crackle of the gas stove.
Smell the ever-present coffee brewing.
A floor slightly tacky with years of mopping,
road salt at winter, and flour and oil spills.
A formica table with mismatched chairs
and somehow, elbow to elbow was cozy.
The fridge had covered glass dishes
and meat wrapped in butcher paper.
I can see the narrow, stuffed pantry shelves
and feel how the cellar store sticks
as you grab potatoes from the landing.
The darkness below was thick
and there was a smell of pets, shoe shine,
must, and earthen floors.
There’s light from a small window
overlooking a sliver of yard filled with
a creeping garden and a few lawn chairs.
You can hear the clock chiming from the hall
and see part of the sofa and paintings
of the living room through the doorway.
It’s a supremely welcoming place,
this kitchen. It felt like another country
when I was a little girl. It was the time before
such rooms became instant and sterile,
a time of newspapers and aprons.