In the Kitchen

She gets up from the recliner. She’s wearing her old robe and pink sweatpants. I fix her a plate, pull out a chair for her. She sits down and starts to eat like she’s starving. I know better than to ask when she ate last.

The stove is a disaster. Beneath the towel, charred patties congeal in an inch of greasy water. The whole stove smells rancid, caked with ashy spatters. The calendar on the wall–December 1981, when Pop died–is singed at the corners.

I feel my anger rise. “You’re just lucky you didn’t burn down the fucking house.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

9 thoughts on “In the Kitchen

    • I agree with Bill above.
      Elderly can’t do for themselves. It’s embarrassing for them
      to ask for help even if it is family. I hope he accepts that and
      pockets the anger. Well done …
      Isadora 😎

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