At Home in the Kitchen
/ the World Waits

Jen Schneider

KYW warns of broken taillights and delayed flights as metal forks kiss plastic spoons. Winds hiss and kettles whistle. Chicken broth and congealed cream of mushroom soup brush shoulders with parsley flakes and frosted wheat squares. Soup cans cuddle while bars of soap boast fresh aromas. Suds bubble - inhale, exhale, p(l)op - in soft layers of vanilla-scented wash. Trouble brews. Springsteen belts lyrics on love (on bended knees) and longing (sheets soaking wet) knowing full well that not all dirt roads are destinations. Sometimes the dirt is of (or off) the making. It’s uncommonly common knowledge that not all messes lead to dark places. Just as aces are to deuces as memories are to destinies. Like the ways Wrinkle in Time (my oldest on page 99) is to whipped batter as laugh lines are to moments in suspension. Tick. Tock. Lick. Pluck. Bodies meander, pockets of skin and denim sag, and limbs lock.

The metal sink burps nursery rhymes then giggles as time-turners wink then blink. Soldiers at attention. Responsibilities on the clock. The oven lights (LEDs) add to the warm melody. A chicken timer rocks, always taking stock. An egg to its right waddles (also waivers). Often boiling a matter of perspective. Both chicken and egg seem to never miss (or skip) a beat. Does it matter which came first - the chicken or the egg? I wonder as I scramble then stir then pull out the Cuisinart. Noises everywhere – Whirr. Why. Roar. The kitchen a perennial place of more. Why can’t we have dessert before dinner? my child prods. Dinner before dishes. Dishes before dessert. Habits as much routine as superfluous. My oldest plays a game of jacks. Metal spokes and rubber balls bounce as a barefoot baby at my cotton-clothed striped feet sings an off-key melody. A dogeared copy of Henny Penny rests safely in her lap. Can the sky fall, his sister pokes as her lashes flap wings they do not have. Walls of butterflies and 70s-era paper shimmer. Both invite reflection and reflective manners. At the window’s ledge, a red robin waits. I don’t know why it forgets. Glass as much an illusion as online poker odds and whack-a-mole quests. I can’t say whether the sky might fall. Accu-Weather might be a more appropriate conversational source. Plates stack like leaning towers. Tiny guests circulate. Networking on all corners. Ants march while a fruit fly flaps wings both miniscule and mighty (perhaps my daughter is on to something). Guests and guardians (my youngest quiet, intent on cereal and serial graphics) rest.

The countertop remains busy. The engine idles. Bustling and bristling both habit and obligatory. Snoopy-themed mugs hug saucers with subtle chips while Linus sleeps. Oak table landings soak spilt milk and vanilla icing. REM wonders (stand in the place where you live). No rush for sleep or REM dreams. Orange Crush chills. An osprey circles above the skylight. I wonder if it’s hungry or if it’s a former resident checking on both legacy and longing. Blueberry banana bread bakes. The metaverse calls. Reception unable to collate. Lines both untraced and unanswered. Add dates, the youngest says of the batter. Or dried grapes. No spins on merry-go-rounds. Traffic stalls for miles. Within the kitchen’s walls, the world waits. Breadcrumbs form trails of lyrics. Police compile tickets. Do you know how fast you were going? one asks. Don’t go anywhere, my youngest interjects. A woodpecker knocks somewhere (reasons unknown). The doorbell rings. UPS drops a box (contents shown). A squirrel chases a fox. The Fitbit on my left wrist rings. My right arm responds. An Uber waits neither here nor there. I slip on a puddle of syrup. My knee cracks. I wonder if the gold thread and cherry patch on my back-pocket will survive the surprise. My son offers arms and a seedless orange, skin intact. A young girl in overalls and pigtails, her family recently moved in next door, wants to know. Why is the fish on its back? Sweetness dances the waltz. I smooth wrinkles of cloth and time. Dust forms halos amidst tousled (c)locks. Silence sings. At home in the 70s-era kitchen, the AI-powered world waits. I hope to make it there by nightfall. Traffic spirals, the transmission sputters, and the Honda hesitates. A gull squawks. Souls in rubber soles press gas pedals, both manufactured and fractured. What forms of silence / What forms of waiting – do we most anticipate?