A light on in the kitchen

A light on in the kitchen

For Mom

A woman opens the door

Arms full of groceries

She sets them on the kitchen counter

Along with her keys and jacket and kid's sock and 

A paper cup of melted ice and Diet Coke

She puts on the counter her rolled pizza dough

Hot out of the oven on a threadbare oven mitt

She lets the laughter roll over it

She paints over it, regrets it

She sets her to do lists on the kitchen counter,

Nine since last Thursday

She puts her kids' homework there, 

Their elbows as they sulk over problem #7

She puts her patience there,

Wrapped warm in a blanket, 

Like a loaf of bread to cool,

Sometimes burnt and hot to the touch

She lays her worries there, 

Wondering if it will collapse

She spills the casserole and

Doses the medicine with water beside

She gathers the eggs from the hens,

Cracks them there on the counter,

12 eggs a morning, multiplied by 7,

Equals, multiplied by 54, 

multiplied by what? How many years?

She leans on the counter there and 

Wonders sometimes at night or early in the morning,

"For what?"

That's when she spreads her prayer out there, 

Like a morning offering, like a dusting of flour, 

The light making latticework over the dented counter,

Christening the sacrifice

She wipes the disappointments 

Off the counter with the crumbs

And scoops up her children instead 

To snuggle them, leaning against the counter

She kisses foreheads and her husband on the lips

And welcomes home with her sleeves rolled up

And the counter beams at her all the while

Wondering that the woman ever thought the counter might break

When all she'd given him was a place to call home

And, always, a light on in the kitchen

At the end of the day

— olivia gwyn