November 7th

The walls of my mother’s kitchen were lush with faded sunflowers
And my grandfather’s portrait. He stood in our garden,
Dark suit and no visible hair,
The Bible that would become mine clutched to his vest.
I was convinced his severe expression
Was a result of his daughter’s failed beef stroganoff.
My grandfather suffered the indignity of hanging just above the stove.

I stared at him, that man, until the time came to put him away.
I removed the portrait from its grave of sunflowers
And turned towards the room where my godfather waited.
He looped the tie I had struggled with all morning around my neck
And tied the effortless knot I was too proud to learn.
We walked out the door, silently agreeing
There was nothing inside worth setting the alarm for.

The window into my mother’s kitchen showed nothing.
The world beyond those walls went about its routine.
Day gave way to the moonless night,
Crickets performed the Moonlight Sonata
To an empty garden. The wind blew upon this house
And then right through its foundation,
Changing the way my mother would cook for years.