Everything happens in the kitchen in my family.

Mom washed us in the sink when we were infants, and we used to sit on the edge of it when Dad was working out a splinter with his glasses and the light from the fluorescent bulb above the window over the sink.

I used to curl up next to the heat vent in the mornings waiting for mom to cook me breakfast before school; we'd go over vocabulary lessons and spelling lists.
In high school I learned to cook in here - battling with my mother over control of her kitchen. I entertained friends in here, all of us leaning against the counter to spite the small bistro table my mother squeezed into the corner.

I stood in this kitchen with my husband when we announced our engagement at Thanksgiving dinner; and this is where we always drinking songs on St. Patrick’s day.
This is where my children run through and snatch cookies and lemonade on their way out to the back yard, and where my parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

This is where dad fell when his heart gave out, making a sandwich for lunch.

I can feel my eyes swivel away from cold tea to stare at the spot. Just below the cupboards that hold all the plates and in front of the bottom cupboards that hold all the baking pans, a little to the left of the sink, but not in front of the stove. Shadows pool and drape in the corners of the kitchen, specters held off by the bright light hanging over my head.

Hundred of miles away my own kitchen is dark, clean and smells of lemon. This kitchen has no single smell, the consolation casseroles have all overpowered each other and jockey for space in the old brown fridge. The kitchen is ruled by the smell of sauce, cooked noodles, and a faint whiff of bleach; my mothers contribution. Every spill was wiped away immediately, because she had not been able to wipe away the death of her husband.

I swirled my tea, disinterested. Late at night was when we talked, my father and I. I was always a night owl and whether it was a late night snack or just coming home or couldn't sleep, I was always up and sitting at the table when he got up. My father worked long days well into his seventies and was always up around three or four in the morning. In high school this was how my parents checked my curfew; if they saw my face before work I was in trouble.

Eighty three years old and people lined up to have him work for them. He'd had two hip replacements, new teeth, and gone through six pairs of eye glasses (two lost, one crushed, two mangled and one dropped into a gas tank) and four lunch boxes (all crushed by heavy equipment rolling over them when he left them outside the cab of the rig after lunch). He genuinely loved to work, loved everything about it and having died making his lunch for work the next day was not poetic or ironic or sad to my family, it was appropriate.
When my mother called me to break the news; I was in my kitchen, cooking dinner. I burned the spaghetti, and the garlic bread was soggy.

Now I was here, husband and three kids, shacked up in my old room, the house sagging under the weight of well wishers, anger, sadness, confusion and loneliness. I couldn't sleep, and the funeral kept playing over and over in my mind. The whole process had felt off, there was something missing between all the good wishes and the speeches and the humor and the grief and graveside sobs of my mother and brothers and sisters.

I looked again at the spot where he fell and realized I had not said goodbye yet; not really. The funeral and all that went with it were everyone else’s goodbyes; not mine. Mine would have to be different.

I didn’t turn on any other lights, just kept the hanging light over my mothers tiny bistro table glowing softly behind me. The fridge light had been broken all my life, but years of late night snacking guided my hand to the mayo, mustard, cheese, lettuce, tomato and turkey. I slid a butter knife out of the drawer and took the plastic twist tie off the whole wheat bread.

I build the simple sandwich in the semi-dark, the feel of my family all around me. I liked the mustard of the tip of my thumb and gently placed the knife in the sink. Slowly, I put all the ingredients back, I was my mother’s daughter, and everything had a place. Dad never put anything back where he was supposed to – I started to tremble as I realized this fridge would never have to suffer the indignity of misplaced mayo ever again.

I turned off the light, and left my offering on the counter in the dark, holding arms tight around myself, feeling stupid and sentimental and so unbearably sad.

Morning found my family gathered around me curled on the floor against the heater with the sandwich still quietly on the counter, and my mother’s eyes full to the brim with tears above her dimples.

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