I was in my mother’s kitchen. It is autumn and she is about to die. Years later my father died in the springtime. They were opposites like that. Mom was a believer. Dad said, “When you’re dead, you’re dead.” Mom was always nice to people and dad would care less. Dad drank himself into a stupor and my sober mother always helped to carry him home, or to rehab.
My mother’s kitchen was her workshop and out of it came strawberry rhubarb pie, fudge brownies, fudge, meringue on pies or simply cooked on a baking sheet, peanut butter cookies she would crisscross with a fork, peanut brittle, anise candy, cinnamon rolls, French breakfast puffs and tapioca pudding. She loved sweets.
My father’s workshop was in the basement, just like his father before him. Every tool was hung up in order across the wall over a huge workbench. Those tools hung so perfectly, waiting for him to pick them up and build something, anything.
place with no seasons
where nothing ever happens
sad to imagine
Haibun prompt at dVerse about Spring