Childhood Kitchen

There was nearly a year spent sorting out my Dad's affairs after he died. For the duration we kept his house more or less operational. We had heat, air, groceries, dishes, utilities, toilet paper, mice, mouse traps. Sometimes I'd get there an hour or more before my brother. I liked the peace and quiet. I liked the moving-vehicles-in-the-sun type reflections that would suddenly appear then sort of stretch out across the one wall. I liked never knowing exactly where these reflections were coming from–or even, for that matter, from which window. Just as when I was little. That had not changed. That would never change.