On my better days,
I love the window over my kitchen sink
from where I can watch
the going and coming of neighbors, their
kids running and screaming, having fun;
it takes my mind off the mundane task
of washing cups and dishes,
scrubbing pots and pans.
Then, there are the other days when
I hate the window over my kitchen sink
and wished it was a brick wall instead.
Those are the days my mind wanders
and enters the mystifying
paths of the imagination.
Those are they days I see my own kids,
unbiddenly gone before me.
As if by magic,
I see my firstborn, twelve years old,
sitting on the porch across the street with her friend.
I’m sure they are talking about boys.
Sometimes they whisper, other times they laugh.
I remember when I was twelve.
My second daughter is ten,
she’s somewhat of a tomboy.
I see her riding her bike with the next door boys,
There she goes,
yelling and racing, vying for first place.
Then there’s my youngest,
a healthy, robust boy who plays on
the neighborhood Little League Team.
I see him coming home, face grimy & sweaty,
uniform covered with mud
from stealing bases to win the game.
What a rascal!
Suddenly,
a cup slips out of my hands and
crashes into the sink!
As it breaks into a thousand tiny pieces,
my wandering mind comes back,
back to my reality of
a house without children,
a house that is quiet & tidy,
a house that is painfully barren,
a house with a window over the kitchen sink.
Mildred Santiago
