In the Kitchen

I helped clean out the kitchen
when the house had to be sold.
Cupboards were emptied of medicines and spices
and a jumble of quaint old things
that no longer had a purpose.
Yellowing stitched linens were tossed out
along with antique hand tools
once used to whip cream and grind up meat.
With little debate we divided up precious mementoes,
saved from the rented blue dumpster
which filled to the brim in half of a day.
When the room became a vacant space
I looked hard at what could not be taken:
pencil marks on the doorframe
which had recorded the heights of growing children;
a black scar burned into the floor where a candle fell
the day Bobby Kennedy was shot;
and a curious dent in the metal ceiling
that only my sister and I could explain, but never did.
As I stared at the emptiness I closed my eyes
to smell the sweet aroma of apples being cored
by my father sitting at the table
as mom was rolling the dough for a homemade pie.
I could hear them gossiping and talking about politics
in between quizzing me about state capitals and baseball statistics.
I inhaled the simple joys, sucking them deep inside me,
taking the memories with me
along with a smile and a few tears
as I left the kitchen for the final time.