Your measly mustards. Your winking chutney. What am I supposed to do with you?
When the kids were little, I could swing the heavy door confidently and always find the makings for pancakes, an omelette,
Now things go in you to die.
When I open you, you belch back at me like a frat boy with your ketchup and hot sauce and beer, and your hopeful canister of protein powder.
Everyone warns you about the empty nest. But what about the empty refrigerator?
Kely (how they spell my name at Starbucks)
You stopped at my house.
You asked if my oldest daughter was with me this summer. Or the middle one. Or the youngest one.
Your shoulders dropped two inches when I said no. That they were in other cities, working other jobs. Not here, babysitting, just when you needed one.
I said I was sorry, that I would tell them you said hello, and you rode away.
But afterwards, I couldn’t forget the droop in your posture. You looked hot, tired, overwhelmed.
And I wished I had said what I am thinking now: I’ll watch your kids for you.
Because I miss mine. And someday, you’ll miss yours too.
Mom on the porch