Her Mother's Kitchen

A sweet child rests her eyes, allowing the scent of delicious peace linger through her.
She learns by heart, and the manifestation of her childhood dreaming begins to call.
She is welcomed by the white sliding door that has sheltered the fragrance of her Mother’s Ash Reshteh for so long.

She envisions her Mother’s territory; caramel colored wood cabinets against the black refrigerator her Father had just bought from Sears fully equipped with the new fad, an ice and water machine.

The warm brew of Sadaf Earl Grey.

The glazed wooden pantry with shelves lined with wallpaper, circa 1970.

Stocked with anything that would cause a six year old, quite a sugar rush.

The memories of baking rice crispy treats with mommy float above her, as she watches the annual Thanksgiving turkey basting, with 15 women causing utter chaos, like lions fighting over their pray.

The scent of her heritage runs wild.
Friday night services culminate with her Mother’s Khoreshteh Bamiyeh.
Her taste buds were ever so thankful,
before the tumultuous winters of years to come brought her kitchen walls tumbling down.

The sweet bliss of Saturday morning breakfasts shine a sweet light upon her adolescent eyes.
She is full, within a haze of pure intense discontent.
She lies awake in a comatose state seventeen years into the future.
Her childhood dream has melted away.
Her Mother’s kitchen was hit by a tempest of lies 14 years prior.

What remains, is the spirit of a woman that once had such a vibrant aura.
A refrigerator that no longer freezes ice, as black, as the shadows of 15 women
who once shared such a love for one another have become,
and the aching corpse of an adolescent who has been left out in the cold…

Away from the warmth radiating from her Mother’s tea kettle, the sheltering walls where her parents love once kept her safe from harms way, and the trust that once gave life to her Mother’s kitchen.