In my mother’s kitchen Grandma’s measuring cup is still on the shelf, her nutmeg grater hangs from its hook. For sugar and salt, we still use the little wooden shovels. I set the table with the familiar blue-and-white dishes, the placemats my sister and I weaved that Christmas we got the looms. In the pantry, I still reach for the light switch on the left where it no longer is. Dad rewired the kitchen twenty years ago. I cannot rewire my brain, cannot train my hand to reach to the other side.
About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines.
Image Credit: Floris Van Schooten “A Kitchen Still Life With Pots And Pans On A Stone Ledge And Animated Figures In The Background” Public Domain
As It Ought To Be 