Yesterday, while I stood in my kitchen,
deeply inhaling the steam
from the just-opened dishwasher,
that had, somehow,
into my grandmother’s kitchen,
I stared into the racks, breathing.
While my mind conjured the yellow tiles,
white metal cabinets,
and apricot preserves,
on a fresh Irish scone.
And in that moment,
I wondered. Somewhere,
in the whatever is Beyond,
was my grandmother also transported
on that blast of steam,
into my kitchen?
Could she smell the roast I made?
Could she see that we painted the kitchen yellow?
Did she notice her plate on the wall?
Nichole M. Dulin