by Christina Lundberg
Is it just me, or do you also long for that woman perched at the apron-front sink, lighting up when you walk into the room? I see her so clearly.
Catching my breath on the potted rosemary, her soft hands, like small heartbeats, give squeezes to mine. She waves her head towards the first thing I must do, lemon Joy dish soap. And while I pour too much of the sudsy citrus into my hands that of course is really only meant for dishes, she shimmies between butcher blocks as the steam of garlic and onion travel diaphanous paths laden with olive oil, daylighting beside her.
And when we sit to eat together, the room wears the warmth of a wood burning fire, like a thick foe fur. Side by side, on a pair of asymmetrical flea market chairs twirling pasta upon our forks like soft, buttery yarn; we jabber on. With this ease, eating from the white porcelain bowls, cotton napkins in our laps becomes a sharing of who we really are.
This is how I want to be nurtured.
Of course nobody is actually in this kitchen or in these chairs. And the empty jam jar may be a hole under your skin covered with a bruised lid. We all have one. Every time you push the center, a burp of gold bulge is released, and your raw is seen.
Oh, the gnawing, ache in my chest. Someone — please come.
Just know that I need them.
And yet, no one is coming. And it is not until you are under the weight of all the wooden beams that you know what you have been wondering all along, the very thing that went missing from the floating shelves of your life that had always been missing is now nobody else but you. So you lay over your slumped body like a tired, stray dog. And gather up the pieces of care you have saved since childhood, the toasty crumbs you massage, on long walks, between your fingers,
and mine the rest out of a smattering of shiny souvenirs you take out of books and podcasts. This collage becomes the window you look out of when you are feeling sunny or when you want to feel bright. And the view becomes more beautiful than you ever imagined as you stand beside it at the large oak table you build, filling however slowly, with friends you handpick,
one by one — by one.
***
photo credit: Ellen Tanner, Unsplash
Christina Lundberg holds a Graduate Certification in Psychology, Graduate Certificate in Instructional Design, a Master’s degree in writing, and has started a PhD in I/O Psychology. She is a part-time English professor and professional and personal development coach https://itgetstobeyou.com/. She loves to spend time with her family and has been known to enjoy a great cup of coffee.
Farmer-ish 