Going Home

Going Home

                                                                          

When I walk in the house, I see bold red carpeting on the left against the wall, climbing up the stairs to the next level.  The entry is insignificant; what’s most important is the hallway straight ahead that leads to the kitchen in the back of the house. 

The kitchen is where the warmth of my mother’s love resides.  I see the round dark wood table that welcomes you to join in a delicious home-cooked meal, and the wooden chairs with the colorful seat pads tied with pretty bows at the back.  The sun spills in through a large bow window and lights up the walls, which are covered in a turquoise, navy, and yellow patterned wallpaper.  I thought the design was cheerful at the time, but it would probably be considered tacky by today’s standards.  Simple brown baskets of different shapes and sizes hang flat against the wall. 

            Mom has on her apron and she’s clutching the hand mixer as it whirs inside the silver bowl.  The smell of chocolate fills the room.  She’s making pudding for us and there’s love mixed in the sugary, milky-smooth dessert.  After pouring the liquid into small glass bowls, she looks up at me, smiling.  “Want to lick the bowl?”  I don’t answer because she already knows. 

I move into place beside her.  The pointer finger goes in first, making a linear path across the bowl’s inner surface, the warm chocolate sliding on in a big, drippy mound.  I open my mouth and stick my chocolate-covered finger inside.  My lips clamp down and as I slowly pull my finger out, the sweet liquid spills into my waiting mouth.  “Mmmm…”  I close my eyes. 

The other fingers soon follow the same route from metal to mouth as I cover my hands in chocolate heaven in my Mom’s kitchen.